


Different from the Rest

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: I Will Wait for You [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, Body Worship, Christmas, Cliffhangers, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton’s Spectacular Self Esteem, Crying, Dom Phil Coulson, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Gags, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Sex Work, Pheels (Marvel), Phil’s family shamelessly cribbed from another fandom, Rimming, Scening while drunk, Sexual Harassment, Shower Sex, Sorry Not Sorry, Spanking, Spies & Secret Agents, Sub Clint Barton, Teasing, Under-negotiated Kink, no beta we die like men, self gaslighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:04:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Phil takes Clint home for Christmas.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: I Will Wait for You [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580395
Comments: 41
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Well I came home  
> Like a stone  
> And I fell heavy into your arms  
> These days of dust  
> Which we've known  
> Will blow away with this new sun  
> — Mumford and Sons: I will wait for you
> 
> We may be different from the rest  
> Who decides the test  
> Of what is really best?  
> We're a couple of misfits  
> We're a couple of misfits  
> What's the matter with misfits  
> That's where we fit in!  
> -BURL IVES We're A Couple Of Misfits from the 1964 Rankin/Bass Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
> 
> Please let me know if you see any typos (I think I caught them all, but they can be wiley little critters); or if there is something to be tagged for that I missed.
> 
> ETA: Please note the Cliffhanger tag. It will be resolved in Let the Waves Up Take Me Down: Now, which is set to start posting in May.

“Is it too late to change my mind?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. If you’re not ready…?” Clint thinks Coulson might mean it. Might call an audible even when they’re literally steps away from the tango and there is so much at stake.

“No. I can do this. I can do this,” Clint says, bouncing in his feet and trying to psyche himself up, “Fuck. I can’t do this.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of; and I will be with you the entire time.”

“Okay. Okay. We’ve been sitting here too long. Let’s do this,” Clint throws open the cheap rental car door and steps out into the snow. He shuts the door behind him, throwing back a panicked look when Coulson takes his time following.

Phil keeps his expression neutral, not showing any trace the laugh that bubbles up in him at Clint Barton being afraid of anything.

For God’s sake, Barton’s jumped out of no less than three burning buildings in the ten weeks he’s been approved for fieldwork. Honestly, it had frightened Phil enough for the both of them. Though Phil thinks he handled it admirably well; certainly better than the time Barton jumped _into_ a burning building.

Phil comes around the car and adjusts Barton’s jacket, the same one he wore in Odessa, reversed to its less ragged orange side, the sleeves stored away in his luggage. It doesn’t need straightening but it gives Phil an excuse to touch his nervous submissive and he smooths his hands across Barton’s shoulders.

“I should have let you buy me that jacket. I don’t think my cover would wear—”

“Your cover is you, sweetheart, just a few minor tweaks.”

Clint normally loves undercover work, but this? This is almost the opposite; this has to be him at his most authentic.

That’s what has Clint so scared.

“Like being a corporate drone,” he says with distaste.

“I thought it would be easier if you worked at Triskelion with me.”

Clint sulks, “As a mall cop.”

“As the ex-special forces head of security,” Coulson smiles, “Trust me, they’re going to think you’re a badass.”

Triskelion started as a SHIELD front in the eighties; and, yes, it originally built malls but it has since grown into a multinational conglomerate in its own right, providing a steady income stream for SHIELD in addition to airtight covers for its agents.

“Unlike you. I mean, an HR recruiter? Really? Who buys that shit?”

“That’s VP of Human Resources, thank you very much. It’s not completely inaccurate,” Coulson says with an amused glint in his eye, “And HR has been my cover with them since the day Fury recruited me.”

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes, “It’s not inaccurate to call a shark a fish.”

“Sharks aren’t fish.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you done stalling?”

He takes a deep breath, “Yes?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

Clint squares his shoulders, “Yes.”

Phil risks pressing a kiss to the corner of Barton’s mouth, “Come on, then, let’s grab our gear and get moving.”

Once they have everything Phil takes Barton’s hand and half leads, half pulls him up the stairs to the front door of the large house, which opens as they get to the top.

Of course Phil’s little sister had been spying on them.

Almost as tall as Phil, Shelly has their dad’s whiskey brown eyes and the Coulson dark brown hair. A smattering of moles set off her pale skin and she’s barefoot, wearing a black ankle length skirt and a blue sweater with one snowman threatening another with a hair dryer; the dryer is stretched large over her very pregnant belly.

“Philly!” Shelly squeals and then wraps him in a hug that feels like home.

“Mischief,” he lets go of Barton’s hand and drops the handle of his suitcase so he can fully return the hug, “Still getting into trouble?”

“Always.”

After a couple long seconds they let go and Coulson puts his hand on the small of Clint’s back, “Clint Barton, Michelle Coulson.”

“Hello, ma’am,” Clint says, holding out his hand. He promised himself to be on his best behavior for Coulson’s family.

“Shelly, please. It is so nice to finally meet you,” she takes his hand and pulls him into a brief hug before he can think to protest, “Welcome to the madhouse.”

“Madhouse?” Clint gives Coulson a concerned look as Shelly lets him go, trying to concentrate on the words instead of the way that quick show of affection has rattled him.

“I take it everyone else is here?” Phil says, wrapping his arm back around Barton’s waist, partially in support, partially to keep him from bolting. Phil leads him into the entryway.

“Derek’s in the kitchen with Dad, Laura and her crew are down in the rec room watching TV, and Mom’s writing.”

“No Uncle Noah?”

“He and Uncle Chris are at the airport picking up the twins. They have the van, they could have picked up you too and saved you from renting a car.”

“And spend extra ‘quality time’ with Kate and Peter? No, thank you.”

“Not to mention you want to be able to make a quick escape.”

“That’s not... okay, that’s completely fair. But can you blame me?” There are thirteen of them filling the house over the Christmas break and Phil is worried it might be all a bit too much for Barton.

Sometimes it’s a bit too much for Phil.

Coulson helps Clint take off his coat and hangs it on one of the dozens of hooks decorating the combination bench/coat rack in the entryway, Coulson’s leather jacket quickly following.

Clint’s questioning his wardrobe choices. It was a four hour flight from D.C. to Wisconsin and he dressed for comfort but now he’s worrying about how Coulson’s family will see him. Coulson could have anyone he wanted with a crack of his whip; he’s dated astrophysicists, environmental lawyers, even Ward is some high ranking senator’s son. He knows compared to them he’s just cheap carnie trash.

Clint’s in the new black Henley Coulson bought him, but his favorite jeans have seen better days. He frowns down at his been to hell and back Chucks, the purple faded until it's more of a dingy grey, and thinks it’s past time to replace them. Between his shoes, jacket, and rough edges they’re all going to know Coulson’s slumming it.

In contrast Coulson’s wearing one of his tailored suits, looking as fresh as when he put it on this morning, as always; this one is charcoal grey with a white shirt and a green tie with little gingerbread men. When you get close they’re all saying, ‘Bite me’, which Clint had thought was hilarious when he bought it but figured Coulson would never actually actually wear it. Seeing Shelly’s sweater had eased some of his anxiety over meeting Coulson’s family; at least one of his sisters shares Clint’s sense of humor and he’s hoping to recruit her as an ally.

“Let’s say ‘hi’ to Dad and then we can take our luggage downstairs.”

“I can take care of it now.”

“You’re going to have to meet everyone sooner or later, may as well get some of it out of the way before it’s a crowd. Kitchen’s this way,” Coulson says leading him up the half flight of stairs towards the smell of warm cookies, leaving their suitcases in the landing as they head up into the great room.

The light wood paneled ceilings are vaulted, with several skylights blocked by snow, and it would make the room seem chilly if not from the warmth of the airy kitchen. There’s an eight burner stove in the island with what must be Coulson’s father and brother-in-law on the other side; to the right of the sink is a double oven under a microwave and next to an industrial sized refrigerator. Mr. Coulson is taking out a couple trays of cookies and setting them down on the burners. Coulson’s brother-in-law starts moving the cookies to a cooling rack.

The kitchen flows to the left into what looks like was once a breakfast nook but has been expanded to accommodate a live edge wooden table that could easily seat sixteen. Through the surrounding bay windows there's a view of Lake Michigan’s waves crashing over the frozen shore line just beyond a small copse of snow-covered pine and elm trees.

Phil walks around the giant island, the counter top covered in cooling cookies and baking paraphernalia, to greet his dad, who swings him around in a hug and says, “Cheese! You made it.”

Barton mouths, ‘Cheese?’ from behind Dad’s back and Phil rolls his eyes.

Phil’s growth spurt in junior high put him several inches over his father and Phil’s able to rest his cheek on the top his dad’s head as he sinks into the hug.

Clint has to swallow down his jealousy and he averts his eyes from the affectionate scene, telling himself he’s giving Coulson a little privacy. His gaze travels from the dining area to the massive stone fireplace, a wood fire burning cheerfully in its center. There are handmade stockings that line the mantle, each with a cross-stitched image.

Clint’s eyes catch on the obviously new bright purple one, right next to a green one that has ‘Phil’ stitched in red and has a cartoon mouse with a Santa hat poking its head out of one of the holes in a wedge of orange cheese. The purple one has Clint’s name stitched in golden thread and a matching bow and arrow and he has to blink away the sting of tears. Damn it, he’s not some flighty sub and he refuses to cry over a fucking Christmas stocking.

The rest of the stockings are equally intricate, with images ranging from a feathery quill to a winking fox. The one at the far end catches his eye, it’s a deep blue with a black and white target, the white stitching says, ‘Allison’.

Tearing his eyes from the Rockwellian image there’s a large couch and a couple of leather easy chairs with kneeling cushions spread all around. Across from them is a large screen TV hanging from the wall over a massive cabinet with every video game system Clint has heard of and some he hasn’t.

Continuing past the huge picture windows where he can see dripping icicles and more forest there’s a fairytale Christmas tree reaching up to the ceiling. It’s decorated in gold balls and frosted glass icicles almost as delicate as the ones in the window. Spread among the twinkling lights are homemade ornaments: reindeer made out of popsicle sticks, cotton ball snowmen, and macaroni and glitter framed pictures of the Coulsons as children.

The tree blocks half of a set of closed French doors with shuttered blinds and then there’s a small offshoot to the left of the doors that overlooks the entryway where there are a couple of loveseats around a coffee table with hand painted Monopoly and checkerboards.

There are little dishes of red and green wrapped candy and M&Ms and various Christmas tchotchkes placed around the room, it’s like something out of a Hallmark movie and Clint has to breathe down the panic at the knowledge that he doesn’t belong here.

Hell, he shouldn’t be within 100 miles of a place like this.

Dad has less hair and deeper laugh lines, but he still favors the corset vests of his youth. Today he has his red and white Santa apron on over a wine and black striped vest; the white sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and he has a smudge of flour on his cheek that Phil ineffectually tries to brush away.

“And this must be your young man,” Dad says letting go of Phil to pull a startled Barton into a hug and Phil has to wonder what has his sub so off balanced to be caught unawares, “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Clint.”

“You… you, too, Mr. Coulson,” Coulson’s father’s emphasis is on the ‘so’ versus is sister’s ‘finally’ and Clint’s starting to wonder what exactly Coulson has told them all about him.

“Oh, I get enough of that at school, please, call me Robert, or if you're comfortable enough with it, Dad.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Coulson tuts as he lets Clint go but doesn’t admonish him for the honorific, “We’re just finishing baking and then we need to start boxing up the care packages. Dinner's at six, one of you kids will need to go and pick it up from di Amici’s in about an hour. In the meantime, Derek, why don’t you get them some coffee and we can catch up.”

Shelly’s collared sub is tall, with dark hair and piercing ice blue eyes; he’s wearing one of the elf aprons Dad got for the kids when they were teenagers over a heather grey Henley and black jeans. He grabs a couple of themed mugs from the Christmas tree coffee mug holder by the coffee maker.

“Hi, Phil. Good to see you again,” he sets the mugs on one of the few bare spaces of the counter top and shakes Coulson’s hand and then Clint’s as well. Shelly comes up behind her sub, resting her hand casually on the back of his neck. Derek doesn’t acknowledge her, but Clint can see the impact of his dom’s touch in the way his pupils go wide and the way his mouth softens. Before Coulson that type of expression would have made him jealous, but now he feels a sense of kinship with the other sub.

“You, too, Derek,” Coulson says, “But no coffee for us right now.”

“Awwww,” Clint grumbles, “But coffee.”

“We need to get our stuff downstairs and I don’t know about Barton but after that plane ride I could use a nap.”

“‘Nap’? Well, try not to make too much noise. There’re fresh gags and other supplies in the linen closet,” Mr. Coulson says and Clint, who had honestly thought he was shameless, can practically hear himself blush.

Before he can figure out how to respond, Coulson says, “No, Dad. Nap,” in that uncompromising tone that warns you not to argue with him, “I’ve never had sex in this house and I don’t intend to start now. And stop trying to embarrass my submissive.”

And damn if that doesn’t make Clint blush even harder, Coulson so casually claiming Clint in a way he never would in public.

“Phillip Jay Coulson, this is and always has been a sex positive household and I would never dream of embarrassing your sub.”

“You’re right. You’re trying to embarrass me; but it won’t work. And now you have to pay the cookie tax,” Phil busses a kisses against Dad’s cheek, reaches past Shelly to grab half a dozen mint chocolate chip cookies, darts his hand away from the cookie dough streaked wooden spoon that Dad snaps after his hand, and says, “Barton, with me.”

Clint grabs the coffee Derek had already poured, takes a deep drink, and moans, forgetting for a moment where he is, it’s that good. Better even than what Coulson makes at home.

He clutches the mug to his chest in a death grip and gives a longing look at the cup Coulson left behind.

“Thanks, Derek. Shelly, Mr— Robert,” nodding to them before following Phil back to the entryway and their suitcases.

He can hear Shelly say, “You know, Derek, I think we could use a ‘nap’ too,” but doesn’t stick around to hear Derek’s reply.

“I can’t believe you almost made me miss out on this,” Clint accuses, taking another drink and moaning again as the taste of the platonic ideal of coffee crosses his tongue.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure I would ever get you to leave the kitchen once you had some. And we really should get a nap before dinner.”

“You know me, I can always sleep.”

Phil smiles, thinking of Kiev and of a safe house without any furniture and of broken ribs, “Fair enough. But if you’re cranky later don’t come crying to me.”

They head down the half flight of stairs and Phil nods to the right, “Up for meeting more Coulsons?”

“With this cup of liquid joy, I’m up for anything.”

“You say that now,” Phil says forebodingly, leaving the suitcases in place and leading Barton into a huge room. There’s a full bar just to the left of the doorway, then a TV screen that takes up most of the wall over an electric fireplace. There are two long couches and three leather chairs with ottomans arranged in a horseshoe around a rug that Clint is sure cost more than his first motorcycle, as well as several more luxurious looking kneeling cushions. Past that there’s a short wall dividing off a full pool table surrounded by bar stools and folding chairs next to a card table with a half finished puzzle of what looks like a sleigh being drawn by Clydesdales. Beyond that is a door that must lead out to the four car garage that they had parked next to.

Lounging on one couch is a teenager, wearing dark leggings and a short sleeved red and white plaid mini dress, a pair of combat boots kicked off carelessly to the side. She’s texting but keeping half an eye on the TV.

There’s a dom with the same coloring as Coulson leaning back in one of the chairs under a hand knitted throw, a different color but the same pattern as the one in Coulson’s office, her bronze button down brings out the flecks of gold in the blue of her hazel eyes and the shine to her dark brown hair. Her sub, a blonde with stunning, smokey, brown eyes in a blood red leather bustier, black collar, and black leather pants is half kneeling half sitting beside her on one of the cushions, her head in her dom’s lap.

“I love this part,” Phil says as Hermey and Rudolph start singing about being misfits on the ludicrously large TV.

Allison looks up from her phone, “Uncle Phil!” She shouts, jumping up and coming over to give him a hug. Phil spins Allison around in a circle, wondering how many more years of this he’ll have.

Erica looks up from Laura’s lap, “Heya, Phil; who’s the hunk, and does he like being shared?”

Laura flicks Erica’s ear and says, “Behave.”

“Make me,” Erica says with a wicked smile.

“Ugh. Mo-ooom. Don’t be gross,” Allison says as Phil sets her down.

“Barton, this is Allison,” Phil says, ruffling her long brown hair, “And over there is Laura and her brat, Erica. Don’t pay any attention to her.”

Erica sticks out her tongue at Phil, which earns her a sharp tug of one of her wavy locks.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Clint,” Laura says.

“So I keep hearing,” Clint smiles, and if it feels a little tight, at least it’s genuine, “Wow, Allison looks just like you, Coulson.”

“She should, we used Phil’s baby batter.”

“Mom!” “Erica!” Allison and Laura say in unison.

“What, it’s true. Trust me, Clint, when you have kids, I highly recomm— mrph!”

Laura covers Erica’s mouth and says, “Do I need to gag you?”

“Ugh, Mother. You’re just as bad as Mom.”

“I have it on good authority there’re fresh gags in the linen closet,” Clint says ‘helpfully’ and finishes his coffee. Allison gives him a disgusted eye roll and harrumphs back to her place on the couch.

“Well?” Laura asks, taking her hand away from Erica’s dark red mouth.

“I’ll be good,” she pouts, but the look she sends her dom through her impossibly long lashes says otherwise.

“Yes, well. Barton and I are going to get settled in for a nap before dinner. I think dad’s looking for volunteers to go pick it up,” Coulson says with a knowing smile at Laura.

“Perfect. Erica, go let Dad know that you and Kate will go.”

“I’ll be good,” Erica says with sudden seriousness, increasing Clint’s apprehension at meeting Kate.

“If you are, you can take Allison instead.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Coulson takes Clint’s empty coffee cup and puts it in the bar’s dishwasher. It gives Clint a chance to look over the liquor selection and he lets out a low whistle. There’s a bottle of just about everything he’s ever heard of and several more than are new to him, and he once spent a month bartending in Vegas to get close to a mark.

Phil takes them down the hallway, pointing to the doors, “Shelly and Derek got here second so they’ll be in mom’s old study. When they remodeled the upstairs balcony into her study they converted it to a bedroom and put in a connecting door to the bathroom/laundry from inside the room. Next to that is another bathroom, insider tip, it’s the one with the best shower. It and all the other bedrooms were expanded as part of the same remodel.”

He moves on to two open doors at the end of the hallway; inside the one on the right Clint can see a king bed on the far side of the room and a bunk bed with full sized mattresses close to the door. There’s a camo duffel bag on the king spilling clothes and what looks like a set of Kunai throwing knives, “Allison and the twins will share this room.”

Clint is really starting to like Allison.

Phil walks through the open the door on the left while gesturing to the two closed doors on the left side of the hallway, “We’re here and then Laura and Erica are next to us, with Noah and Chris taking the one next to them. Noah and Chris will share the bathroom with Shelly and Derek. Laura always makes it a point to get here a day early to get the en-suite.”

“Where will your parents stay?”

“The Master bedroom and bathroom are behind the half bath next to the kitchen,” Phil says, shutting the bedroom door behind them.

“This place is huge, Coulson,” Barton says, worrying his lower lip with his teeth.

Phil cups Barton’s face and looks into his troubled blue eyes, “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I just… I don’t belong here.”

“Of course you do. You belong to me, which means you belong wherever I say you belong,” he says it before he can think better of it and wonders if this is it, if this is the time he’s gone too far, is too possessive, but instead he sees Barton’s eyes dilate and he sways towards Phil.

Clint feels his stomach tighten and his breath catch and he can feel a whisper of subspace at the back of his mind, “Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s save unpacking for later. We both really could use a nap,” more specifically, Phil thinks they could both benefit from a little time holding each other.

“How firm are you on that no sex thing?”

“Very. But, I never said I never necked,” Phil says with a predatory smile.

Clint licks his lips and pushes his hands up under Coulson’s suit jacket. He can feel Coulson’s heart kick up a notch and Clint asks, “In that case, how do you feel about a little necking?”

”I could be persuaded.”

Clint presses his body up against Coulson’s moving his hands around to Coulson’s back and down to his surprisingly taut ass. Clint pulls him close, slotting them together. He lowers his voice and leans into Coulson’s hands to whispers against his mouth, “Take me to bed, Phil.”

Phil groans, Clint can feel what the sound of his given name does to him pressing against Clint’s thigh, and Phil closes the distance between their lips, licking his way inside Clint’s mouth to rub his tongue against Clint’s. Clint barely notices Phil walking him backward until the bed hits the back of his knees.

Phil releases him from the kiss and says, “Shoes off, everything else stays on; lie back on the bed.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says, already breathless. He watches with half hooded eyes as Phil hangs up his jacket and takes off his tie. Clint kicks off his shoes and arranges himself in the middle of the bed and watches Phil get comfortable. Phil untucks and unbuttons his shirt, slowly rolls up his sleeves, and then takes something out of one of the dresser drawers.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Clint says, seeing the length of red rope, “Best nap ever.”

“You don’t even know what I’m planning.”

“Don’t care. I want it. Gimme.”

“Needy,” Phil smiles, but it hits a little too close to Clint’s insecurities and Clint flinches. Phil catches it and asks in a concerned voice, “Clint?”

“It’s fine. Just maybe don’t...?”

“Don’t tease?”

Clint nods and gives a half shrug as he looks away, embarrassed at how subby he’s been ever since the drive from the airport, so unlike his usual attitude towards social conventions.

“I won’t,” Phil reassures Clint as he kicks off his own shoes and joins him on the king sized bed. He straddles Clint’s legs and takes his hands, crossing them at the wrist palms down, “You can touch me however you want, but I want you to leave your hands tied. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says, holding still as Phil binds his wrists together.

“Good boy,” Phil says and Clint whimpers, shifting his hips, “Always so good for me. God, Clint, the things I want to do to you. The things I want to Make you do.”

Clint whimpers again, “You can. Anything. I’d do anything for you.”

“Yes, you will,” Clint shivers at the hunger in Phil’s voice.

Phil ties the finishing knot and Clint figures it wouldn’t take him more than a couple seconds to free his hands. Like this they’re only symbolically tied, but it’s enough for Clint to feel captured and the drop off into subspace inches closer.

“How does that feel?”

“Good, Sir. Thank you.”

“Good. Now come here,” Phil lies back and pulls Clint into his chest, Clint has to struggle a bit to keep his hands from getting trapped between them and he lets out a small sound of triumph when he succeeds.

Phil isn’t sure exactly what’s put Clint into such a vulnerable mood, but he treasures it as it’s such a rare occurrence. He knows better than to ask, especially right now, but he hopes Clint will be open to talking about it later.

Clint stops just short of kissing Phil, letting him take the lead and Phil does so gently, matching Clint’s energy. Clint tries to pinch Phil’s nipple, but he can’t get the right angle or the right pressure through Phil’s undershirt and he gives up in a small huff of impatience.

“Is this what you’re trying to do?” Phil asks, sliding a hand up under Clint’s Henley to lightly pinch his nipple.

Clint feels his eyes roll back, his nipples are so much more sensitive than Phil’s and Phil knows it, knows what it does to him to have them teased this way. He pushes into Phil’s hand, “Ohh, more, Phil?”

Clint knows what the sound of Phil’s name does to him and Phil shivers under Clint’s weight at his needy tone, asking instead of telling, and he rolls them until he’s over Clint. Clint clings to Phil’s shirt as best he can with the rope keeping his wrists together. He spreads his legs until Phil settles between them and Phil squeezes Clint’s nipple a little harder and tilts Clint’s head back with his free hand, baring Clint’s throat.

“Oh, fuck,” Clint whispers as he feels the roller coster dip of subspace tug at him. They’ve barely done anything and he feels ready to go Down.

Phil places tiny bites up and down Clint’s throat and then unbuttons his Henley to make it easier to push it out of the way. He mouths at the join between Clint’s shoulder and neck, then bites down hard and Clint cries out, thrusting up against Phil, “Yes, like that, Phil. Like that.”

That has Phil thrusting back and he knows if he doesn’t reign them back this will get out of control.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Phil says, manhandling Clint until his back is against Phil’s front, “I want to hold you just like this.”

Normally Clint would push back, try to make Phil be a little rough, to have to struggle for the upper hand, but all of that seems far away right now and he goes pliantly.

Phil presses Clint’s ass against his hard dick and he moans into Clint’s ear, “Just like that baby. You feel so good. God, you’re perfect. This is exactly where you’re supposed to be, right here with me.”

“Oh, oh, Sir, Phil. I can’t… I want…” Clint doesn’t even know what he wants, he just knows that he Wants. He twists his wrists within the ropes, not slipping out from them just feeling them and rubs his ass back against Phil’s dick.

“Shhhh, shh. Settle. We aren’t going anywhere,” he cups his hand over Clint’s dick, not stroking or pressing, just holding him, “We’re right where we belong.”

Phil maneuvers his arm under Clint’s neck and over his shoulder until he can grab Clint’s bound wrists and press them against Clint’s chest, controlling even that small movement, then he presses his teeth back into that same sweet spot between Clint’s neck and shoulder. He licks it once and Whispers as softly as he can, “ _Stay_ ,” before biting back down.

Clint’s moan is everything, low and dark and sweet surrender, and Phil holds him tight as he willingly slips Under. Clint happily drifts in that no place place until he falls asleep, secure in his dom’s arms.


	2. Chapter Two

Phil wakes up to the quiet beep of his wrist watch and his inner beast stretches in contentment as he catches sight of the bruise that’s formed between Barton’s shoulder and neck. Phil kisses it then sits up and carefully shakes Barton.

Clint wakes out of a surprisingly restful nap, and Coulson gently unwinds the ropes from his wrists, “Are you up for a little talk?”

“It depends,” Barton says sleepily, “On what you want to talk about.”

“I was wondering… You seem more,” Phil’s pauses, he knows this a sensitive subject for Barton, “Submissive than usual. I wanted to check in and make sure everything is okay. I know I got a little possessi—.”

“I’m not having this conversation again, Coulson. I promised I would tell you if you ever made me uncomfortable or if anything happens that I don’t like. And so far, I like everything you do,” Clint sighs, “You’re right though. Something about being out here, and you being so relaxed… I guess it makes me feel more relaxed too. I spend so much time trying not to look,” he shrugs, “Weak—”

“You’re not—” Coulson starts, his eyebrows furrowed, but Clint raises a hand, stopping him.

“Don’t. Just let me get this out.”

Coulson subsides, but he still has that concerned look on his face.

“I don’t know. I thought I would feel judged all the time but so far your family’s been,” he shrugs again, “Just… nice.”

“They are nice. Well everyone but Kate and Peter.”

“What’s up with them, anyway. Everyone keeps acting like they’re monsters or something.”

“Eh, they kind of are? Not in a work sort of way, more in the mundane everyday kind of way. They’re judgmental, and petty, and honestly just plain mean. Mom keeps threatening to uninvite them but then Uncle Noah talks her out of it. He was the baby of the family and he’s had her wrapped around his finger since they were kids. I think he does it because Uncle Chris blames himself for how they turned out and Noah keeps hoping being around more Coulsons and fewer Argents will let them somehow magically grow consciences.”

“If they’re that bad—”

“Nah, they’re just assholes. Try to ignore them and failing that try not to punch them. Come on, dinner should be here soon,” Coulson takes Clint’s hand and kisses the faint impression the ropes have left on the inside of Clint’s wrist then pads out of the room in his socks, not bothering to fix his shirt or put back on his coat and tie.

Clint is massively turned on at how disheveled Coulson is letting himself be with his sleeves rolled up and the buttons undone and Clint has to take a couple calming breaths before he can follow, not bothering with his own shoes, though the slate tile flooring that runs through the house is chilly even through his socks.

Clint wonders if they’re still called houses when they’re this size. Honestly, it’s nicer than a lot of the places he used to rob in his misspent youth and part of him can’t help but catalog how much everything is worth and what would be the easiest to fence.

Mrs. Coulson is just coming out of her study as they reach the top of the stairs and Clint can see the interior is all warm brown wood with bookshelves lining the walls that frame floor to ceiling windows.

She’s an imposing dom with silver at her temples and her otherwise dark hair up in a severe bun, wearing a crisp white button down tucked into a calf length black pinstripe pencil skirt. She’s wearing big fuzzy rainbow slippers and the sight of them eases something in Clint.

“Mom, glad to see you finally poke your head out of your cave,” Coulson says, leading Clint over the fluffy white rug that covers most of the living room area.

He gives her a hug and she says, “We’ve missed you, Phillip. You need to come home more often.”

Phil clears his throat and then introduces Barton, falling back on formality, trying to hide his nervousness, how much he hopes this will go well, how important it is to him, “Julie Coulson, may I present my submissive Clint Barton.”

The last sub he had brought home had been Grant and Mom had said, “He’s a perfectly lovely sub, but it won't last. Don’t let him break your heart,” and she had been right damn it. It hadn’t lasted and it had broken his heart.

He’s not sure what he’ll do if she says the same about Barton.

Mrs. Coulson sizes him up in a second, and if anything her gaze is even more penetrating than Coulson’s. Clint thinks the last time he felt this exposed was the night Coulson had handed him a file filled with Clint’s life story as part of his recruitment pitch. Then she’s pulling him in for a hug that’s warm and smells like vanilla and coffee and she says softly, as if afraid to startle him, “Welcome to our home, dear.”

Unprecedentedly, Clint finds himself blinking back tears again. For a second it almost sounded like she said ‘your home’, and, for a second, he almost believed it was true. He holds the hug longer than he might otherwise and when he pulls back and has to clear his throat before saying, just as formal as Coulson had been, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“None of that now. Julie, please.”

“Yes, M— Julie.”

Mrs. Coulson smiles, “Erica and Allison should be back any minute. Phil, go downstairs and get your cousins while I show off your boy to Noah and Chris.”

Clint feels a warm rush of heat and has to will down his blush. What is it about Coulsons and their ability to wreak havoc with his emotions?

The kitchen counters have been cleaned and there are little boxes stacked at one end as well as two large plates stacked high with a variety of cookies. Mr. Coulson is sitting on a bar stool labeling the boxes. There’s a tall blond man with similar features to Coulson’s mother and about the same age in a mint green button down and black slacks sitting next to Mr. Coulson and adding stamps to each box as they’re done.

Shelly is reclining on the couch playing a phone game and Derek is kneeling beside her with a paperback book. Every now and then Shelly’s hand drops to comb through Derek’s hair and he leans into her, but he doesn’t stop reading.

“Noah,” Mrs. Coulson says, drawing Clint up next to the dom sitting with Mr. Coulson, “This is Clint. Clint, my brother Noah.”

Noah turns and shakes Clint’s hand firmly, “Clint.”

“Nice to…” Clint trails off seeing the care package that Noah had been working on is addressed to Grant Ward at a DC address. Specifically the Triskelion’s address. Grant Ward, as in Phil’s perfect ex-sub; the one Clint will never measure up to. Of course Mr. Coulson still sends him care packages.

“Clint?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“We don’t really stand on ceremony around here. It’s just Noah.”

“Noah, then.”

“And over there is my better half, Chris. Chris, stop arguing with Laura and come say hello to Clint.”

At that moment, Coulson comes upstairs with two gorgeous blonde doms around Coulson’s age, one a couple inches shorter than Coulson and the other about his height. Peter and Kate.

The shorter one, Peter, is in a brown deep v-neck shirt and blue jeans. He’s complaining to Kate, “It was a bad call, Kate, and I’m not paying. We can let it ride to the next game.”

“Bullshit,” Kate’s wearing a soft black off the shoulder sweater that comes down almost to the top of her knee high black leather boots, just a thin strip of denim visible between the two, “I’m not letting you weasel out of this, Peter. You just don’t like losing.”

Clint ignores them as they sit on the other end of the couch and continue to argue, “No one ‘likes’ to lose. I’m saying this game shouldn’t count because it was a bad call.”

“You suck at losing almost as much as you suck at everything else.”

“That’s enough, you two,” Noah says, and the two doms stop talking but continue the argument in sneers and bared teeth.

Laura and Chris, another blond man, this one sharing features with the twins, taller than Peter but shorter than Coulson, with a scruff of greying stubble and wearing a long sleeved olive green t-shirt and jeans, are setting the table and are apparently arguing over the present Noah and Chris have gotten for Allison.

“She’s thirteen.”

“And you don’t think she’s responsible enough? She’s one of the most level-headed kids I’ve ever met.”

“It’s too extravagant, Chris.”

“What’s too extravagant?” Coulson asks.

“A thousand dollar bow.”

Clint chokes a little, he can’t imagine owning that nice of a bow at any age.

“It’s the manufacturer’s prototype, that may not even end up being the MSRP. And they say it’s going to revolutionize the sport, you wouldn’t want to deny your daughter the best, do you?”

“It’s not about denying her anything. It’s too expensive. And if it’s a prototype how do you know it’s safe?”

“You could have Barton check it out.”

“I know you said your boy was ex-military,” Chris looks skeptical, “But, no offense, how much live fire experience can he really have. Not to mention bows are a huge leap from firearms. Does he even know how to hold a bow?”

Clint’s about to get indigent when Coulson bursts out laughing and doesn’t stop; he actually has to hold on to Clint and his eyes are watering and Clint can’t help but join in because it is kind of funny.

“Care to let the rest of us in on the joke?” Kate asks.

Coulson sits in one of the arm chairs and pulls Clint into his lap and in the space of a second Clint’s shocked, delighted, and embarrassed, but he settles when everyone seems to be focused on their amusement and not Coulson’s casual affection or Clint’s willingness to be manhandled.

“Barton was a Ranger and I would put him against anyone else on the planet when it comes to a bow; hell, him with a bow against anyone else with their best weapon.”

God damnit, Clint’s blushing again.

“What would you know about weapons, Phil?” Peter asks snidely, “Didn’t you spent your time in the Army behind a desk?”

Clint looks down at Coulson questioningly and gets a minute shrug in return.

“Knock it off, Peter,” Shelly says, not looking up from her phone, “I know it’s congenitally impossible for you to not be a dick, but you could at least try to make an effort. It can be your gift to the family.”

To be fair, Clint only knows that Coulson was Delta because he has the right contacts. He had signed on to work for SHIELD, or more specifically for Coulson, without doing his research, but Clint had looked into him after the fact. Even then most of what Microchip had been able to dig up had been highly redacted.

Still, he’s surprised that Coulson went with a non-combatant cover. Clint understands the drive to hide who you are from other people, but Coulson takes it to a whole other level.

“I know Barton and I’ve seen what he can do.”

“I, uh… I could give a demonstration?” Clint rubs the back of his neck and shrugs sheepishly down at Coulson, “I sort of brought Flight Risk?”

“I know.”

“You know? And you’re not mad?”

“Sweetheart, you don’t like to let it out of your sight; there was no way you were going to spend a week with it a thousand miles away.”

“Flight Risk?” Mrs. Coulson asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Barton’s bow, Mom. I think he would sleep with it under his pillow if I let him.”

“Oh? Like you don’t,” Clint switches mid sentence, because his family would probably question why Phil sleeps with a knife under his pillow, “Already let me do anything I want. Not that you could stop me,” he says with his typical snark and then bites his lip, worried that it will look like he’s calling Phil’s dominance into question and not the teasing that it’s meant to be.

“As if a Mute like Phil has much choice,” Kate says the word ‘Mute’ like its an insult.

“Mute?” Clint asks, confused.

“Don’t you know?” She asks saccharine sweet, “Phil had to go through months of Speech therapy when we were kids, poor thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that, Kate,” Shelly says, defensive on Phil’s behalf.

And now Clint’s even more confused. It’s one thing for Coulson to let the idiots back at SHIELD think he has a soft Voice, but how is it that his family doesn’t know how strong it is?

“Oh, of course not, it’s just the measure of any dom worth—”

“Soup’s on!” Erica shouts from the front door, “Someone come help carry all this in.”

From there it’s a mad crush as the food is brought in and set up on the table.

Dinner reminds Clint of group meals with Carson’s Carnival. After a big job or turning a large profit the honest way, Carson would bring in massive amounts of food laid out family style among all the tables. It was always a bit of a free for all, but there was enough for everyone and no one went hungry those nights.

He thinks no one else at the table has ever really known hunger. Not the way they casually steal from each other’s plates, or trade bites of different things, passing their plates around the table since it’s easier than trying to pass around the large trays of lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, and chicken parmesan. There’s also rosemary and salt focaccia cut into inch wide strips and aged balsamic and oil to dip it in. For all it’s informality Clint feels hopelessly outclassed.

He’s pretty sure that the wine that’s being freely poured is the kind that doesn’t have a price listed on the menu.

Coulson had told Clint that his dad is a teacher and football coach (and he’s sure there’s a story behind that, what midwestern high school lets a sub coach the football team? He’s pretty sure it’s like some sort of religion out here) and his mom is a lawyer turned author who now only consults the cases she wants, mostly for jury selection and those are few and far between.

Mrs. Coulson started out writing non fiction crime novels in her spare time, and after she had made a name for herself moved on to legal thrillers, and now writes those corset rippers you see on sale at the airport; the ones with a fragile sub held in the arms of a dashing and virile dom. And while lawyer/author sounds like something that makes money, he hadn’t realized she makes _money_.

Everyone in Coulson’s family is some flavor of rich. At least it explains his taste in suits. Clint probably has more put away than all of them combined from a life of freelance crime before signing up with SHIELD, but looking around he still feels like dirt poor carnie trash.

Dad has rolled down his sleeves and ditched the apron. He’s sitting next to Mom, then next to him are Laura, Erica, Allison, Derek and Shelly, and on the other side of the table are Noah, Chris, Phil, Barton, Peter, and Kate.

Clint catches his reflection in the opposite window and is taken a bit aback at how debauched he looks; his hair is even more of a disaster than usual and his unbuttoned Henley is stretched out at the collar showing off the bruise that Coulson gave him that definitely hadn’t been there when they went down for their nap. Looking at his wrists he can still see the faint impression from the rope, and it couldn‘t be more obvious that he and Phil did more than rest for their ‘nap’. He swallows, regretting not freshening up, and hopes Couldon’s whole family doesn’t see him as some cheap slut.

“So, Clint, were you really in the Rangers?” Derek asks, breaking him out of his downward spiral.

“I thought they didn’t take subs no matter how,” and the way Peter looks Clint up and down confirms his fears, “Gifted.”

Phil doesn’t care for Peter’s tone or the way he looks at Phil’s submissive and he has to set down his wine glass or risk breaking it.

“Yeah, they weren’t super happy when they found out,” Barton says with a wry smile, “Hence the dishonorable D and a lifetime of security work no one else wants. Luckily, that never mattered to Coulson,” Barton shifts his body language away from Peter and towards Phil, subtlety telling Peter to back off, or maybe looking for Phil’s protection; though that second point is surely wishful thinking on Phil’s part because if anyone knows how to put assholes in their place it’s Barton. Phil’s not sure Peter gets the message.

Or rather, he’s sure Peter gets it, he’s just not sure Peter cares.

“How did you do it? Pass as a dom?” Allison asks.

“It’s probably easier than trying to pass as a sub,” Barton shrugs, “There’s not a lot to it, it’s mostly confidence. There are more Mute doms out there than people think, and plenty of doms that just choose not to use their Voices,” Phil ignores Barton’s look and takes another bite of chicken, “It’s really not that hard. My brother Barney and I started faking it when we ran away and joined the circus, after a certain point it just became second nature.”

Everyone laughs and then stops when Barton and Phil don’t join in.

“Really,” Kate drawls, “You ran away and joined the circus?”

“Yeah. We had been in and out of a couple terrible foster homes at that point and the nuns at St. Ignatius, the orphanage, weren’t much better and we figured ‘why not’,” Barton shrugs, “I mean, we weren’t specifically looking to join a circus, we would have taken what we could get. But not a lot of places want to take on a ten and eight year old.”

Phil’s hides his surprise behind a sip of wine; Barton doesn’t usually like to talk about his childhood.

Allison’s eyes are wide, ten wasn’t that long ago for her, “You were ten?”

“Eight,” Barton says and takes a bite of bread, and after swallowing continues, “Anyway, when that whole scene went south, we got out of Dodge, got new identities and enlisted.”

“You just ‘got’ new identities?” Erica asks incredulously.

“I, uh, didn’t exactly spend a lot of time on the right side of the law in my misspent youth.”

Phil flicks his eyes to his parents to gauge their reaction; mom is as unreadable as she always when she chooses to be, but dad looks fascinated and not disapproving, so that’s something at least.

Uncle Noah and Uncle Chris look contemplative, while Kate, Peter, and Laura look skeptical; the rest of the table are hanging on Barton’s every word.

“And you knew about,” Laura waves her hand, “All this?” She asks Phil.

“Not for the first couple of contracts, but once I knew I wanted to recruit him I did a thorough background check.”

“More thorough than Army Ranger vetting?” Derek asks dubiously.

“I’m very good at what I do.”

“I’ll say,” Barton says and then blushes. Phil is still amazed at how much Barton has let down his defenses, and knocks his knee against Barton’s in a show fondness.

“At any rate, once that was done, all that was left was the interview, which he passed with flying colors.”

“What interview?” Barton asks, “I don’t remember an interview.”

Phil raises an eyebrow.

“Seriously, when did—“

“Our first meeting in person?”

“I thought that was a—,” a job assassinating a monster in politician's clothing, “A date.”

“I seemed to remember us both getting our signals a little mixed,” Phil smiles. Actually, outside of the job itself he thought Odessa has been a disaster.

“Is that why it took you six months to follow through with an offer?”

“That and things got kind of crazy at work.”

“Wait. That means you had everything that was in my file that first time? You knew I was a sub even before,” Clint gestures vaguely.

“Yes?”

“Are you asking or telling?” Clint asks, teasing Coulson.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I know it was… invasive.”

Clint’s having to recalibrate everything he remembers about the Odessa job; no wonder Coulson took his going Down in stride, he had already known Clint was a sub.

Not only that, it wasn’t just a case of being under the gun and having to complete the mission once he found out Clint was a sub, he had hired Clint _knowing_ he was a sub.

Clint presses his knee back against Coulson’s, “No, I know how seriously you take your job. It probably would have bothered me at the time,” at Coulson’s expression he revises, “Okay, it definitely would have bothered me at the time, but I get it.”

Clint looks around the table and feels a deep urge to pull the attention off of him and Coulson.

“So Noah, what is it you do?”

“Chris and I are contractors with the DoD. Kate and Peter work with us, so we’re basically a family business, but most of it’s classified so we can only talk about it in broad strokes. We’re kind of like talent scouts for weapons manufacturers.”

Clint has soooo many questions; this certainly explains the whole bow thing; he wonders what other kind of perks they get. And, yes, he knows Coulson has R & D wrapped around his little finger, but for some reason Coulson doesn’t like exploiting them, Flight Risk having been an exception, or maybe a bribe for Clint to stay with SHIELD. Clint leans forward to look past Coulson at Noah and Chris, but before he can say anything, Coulson looks catches Clint’s eye and says, “No.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t even know what I—”

“Yes, I do. And the answer is ‘no’.”

“Ugh. Fine, Captain Killjoy.”

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Peter laughs, “‘Captain Killjoy’.”

Clint bristles internally at Peter’s cruel twist to the words.

“You know, I can get you anything you need,” Peter says with more than a hint of innuendo as he leans in too close again, this time placing his right hand high on Clint’s thigh, his fingers dipping between Clint’s legs and squeezing, “You are far too entertaining for a stick in the mud like Phil. You should be with someone who can appreciate all you can offer.”

It takes all of Clint’s self control not to make a scene; instead he grabs Peter’s wrist in his left hand, “Phil appreciates all my talents,” Clint says, using a pressure point to make Peter’s hand go numb as he peels it away from his leg, “I think you’re just easily amused.”

Kate laughs, “He’s got you there, Peter.”

“I suppose he does,” Peter smiles thinly as he takes his hand back, his eyes anything but friendly. He changes the subject with ill grace, “How long is the FBI letting you play hooky, Shelly?”

“The benefit of being a workaholic that I have enough banked time off that I don’t have to go back until after the baby is born.”

“At least something good comes of it,” Derek says with a long suffering sigh, “Columbia approved my leave of absence; once the Biscuit’s born I’ll have a couple weeks off as well.”

“Columbia?” Clint asks, shifting uncomfortably. Columbia means New York, which means Shelly probably works out of the FBI’s New York office. Barney’s office. He wonders if they know each other.

Not that Barney knows what Clint actually does these days. He still thinks Clint works freelance, but he could still potentially blow Clint’s cover. He makes a mental note to call his brother and lay some groundwork just in case he ever runs into Shelly.

“Derek’s tenured with the history department,” Mr. Coulson says, and once again Clint feels hopelessly outclassed.

“You’ll want all the time you can get,” Laura says, “I remember when Allison was born, I don’t think I slept for a month.”

“At least you got to go back to work,” Erica says, “Don’t get me wrong, I love being a stay at home sub, but Allison was not an easy baby.”

“Hey!” Allison says, “I’m right here.”

“Don’t look at me,” Phil says, “That must come from the Reyes side of the family.”

Mom laughs, “Oh, Cheese, I love you with all my heart but you were a holy terror.”

“Ouch,” Phil says.

“Stop it, Julia, we don’t want to scare Clint away,” Dad says, looking down the table at Barton, “I’m sure your kids will turn out great whether they have your or Phil’s genetics.”

“Dad!” Phil says as the blood drains from Barton’s face, “If anyone’s going to scare Barton it’s you.”

“Now, Phil—”

“No, Dad. Laura,” Phil says, changing the subject, “How are things at Dewey, Cheatum, and Howe?”

Laura rolls her eyes, but says, “When I made senior partner at Hale and Associates they put me in charge of our financial law department, so the excitement never stops.”

Erica bumps her shoulder against Laura’s, “You love it.”

Laura smiles sappily down at her sub, “Not as much as I love you.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Aww, we love you too, sweetheart,” Erica says, pulling Allison into a sideways hug.

“Ugh. Can I be excused, Grandmother?” Allison asks, shrugging off her mom.

“Yes, dear. Why don’t you start clearing the table.”

“I’ll help,” Barton says, looking ready to escape.

“Laura, you and Phil are on dish duty,” there’s not even a hint of Command to Mom’s request, but then she hasn’t bothered Ordering then around since they were teenagers.

“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.

“You can start the coffee, dearest,” Mom says to Dad, running her fingers through his hair, “And once clean up is done we’ll have the tiramisu downstairs.”

Laura and Phil are basically able to keep up with Barton and Allison clearing the table. There’s not much too it as it’s mostly wrapping up leftovers, throwing out the empty trays, and rinsing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.

Laura talks quietly with Coulson as she rinses and he loads, but Clint’s able to catch most of it as he goes back and forth from the table, “You really like him, don’t you?”

“I do, Laurie. I really do.”

“Then I like him too,” Laura says, giving Coulson a brief kiss on the cheek.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Phil and Clint scene while Clint is drunk and not in a good place mentally or emotionally.

Clint is pretty sure he would be willing to die for Mr. Coulson’s coffee. Paired with the tiramisu it's impossibly better and he hums in pleasure as he eats his dessert.

They’re all spread around on the couches and chairs in the rec room, several different side conversations going on. Clint had paused as he finished handing Phil his plate of tiramisu; all of the subs are on the floor kneeling next to their doms and he had a moment of panic until Coulson had pulled him down to sit next to him on the couch.

“Isn’t di Amici’s tiramisu the best?” Shelly asks from next to Clint.

“It’s good,” he says, and looks in Coulson’s eyes as he says with a little heat, “Not quite as good as the one at Angelo’s.”

He’s rewarded by Coulson almost dropping his fork. Coulson stares at Clint’s mouth as he agrees, “Angelo’s is better.”

Phil clears his throat as he chases away the memory of Barton sucking mascarpone off his own thumb, “So, Dad, are you still making pies for the church tomorrow?”

“Of course. We’ll drop them off at midnight mass.”

“Midnight mass?”

“Technically it’s at ten,” Shelly says, then moans as Derek starts to rub her feet now that he’s finished his plate, “Thanks love. But everybody still calls it midnight mass.”

“You don’t have to come,” Phil says at Barton’s pensive look.

“No. No, I’ll come. I just haven’t been to mass since I was a kid.”

“I don’t want you doing anything that will make you uncomfortable,” Phil knows how much Barton doesn’t like to think about his childhood but trusts him to make the best decision for himself; though he can’t help but worry that Barton will force himself to go if he thinks it will make Phil happy. Rather than waiting for a response he tells his dad, “I’ll help with the pies.”

“You bake?” Clint asks. He’s surprised, he’s always thought of baking as sub’s work.

“I taught all my kids to know their way around a kitchen,” Mr. Coulson says proudly.

“Well, I guess one of us should,” Clint says self deprecatingly.

“You don’t know how to cook?” Allison asks.

“Never really had a kitchen,” Clint shrugs, “But I order a mean pizza.”

“You have terrible taste in pizza. Only barbarians put fruit on their pizza,” Coulson says, starting round 27 of the Pineapple war.

“Tomatoes are fruit.”

“Tomatoes don’t count.”

“Pineapple doesn’t belong anywhere near pizza, you monsters,” Derek says.

“Go Team Pineapple,” Shelly says, holding up her hand for Clint to high five, smiling as he does so, “These philistines don’t know a good thing when they see it.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Coulson says with a look up and down Clint that warms him from the inside.

Everyone continues to make small talk until Mrs. Coulson says, “Well, I need to turn in. Coming, dearest?” She asks as she stands.

“You know I’ll follow you anywhere, my love,” Mr. Coulson says, letting her help him up.

“Allison, it’s about bedtime for you too,” Laura says.

“Mo-oth-er,” Allison draws out from where she’s sitting cross legged on one of the chairs.

“Listen to your mother, sweetheart.” Erica says.

“M-om!” She says, betrayed.

Laura says, “Go now and you can read for an hour.”

“Ugh. Fi-ine,” Allison says, flouncing off.

“We’re heading to bed too,” Chris says, standing up from where he was leaning against Noah’s legs and stretching.

“We are?”

Chris raises an eyebrow down at his dom.

“Oh! Yeah, we’re going to turn in,” Noah says, scrambling up and then following his sub.

“We should play ‘Never have I ever’,” Shelly says.

“You can’t drink,” Derek says, reaching up and flicking Shelly’s nose.

She wrinkles it and says, “I know, that’ll make it that much more fun for me.”

“Not to mention that you’ll be able to collect more blackmail material sober.”

“Stop trying to ruin my diabolical schemes.”

“But it’s what I live for.”

“I think it’s a great idea. Should I Irish up everyone’s coffee?” Kate asks.

“Blasphemy!” Clint says with an exaggerated shock, “Touch my coffee and they’ll never find the body.”

Coulson laughs, “You should know that Barton takes his coffee very seriously.”

“Alright then, everyone, pick your poison,” Kate says as she heads behind the bar.

“I’ll start!” Shelly says once everyone has their drink, “Never have I ever put a sub Down.”

“No fair!” Erica says, “You just want to give the dom’s a head start!”

Clint smiles at her and takes a very deliberate drink. He sees Derek drink as well.

“Wait, what?” Shelly asks Derek.

“I had a life before you, you know.”

“But you’re not a switch!”

“Neither am I. You don’t need a Voice to put a sub Down,” Clint says.

“Well, I guess you would know,” Kate says with a pointed look at Coulson.

“I want to hear Clint’s story.”

“Sorry, Erica, I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Then what’s the point of the game?” Peter asks.

“Drink now, blackmail later,” Shelly says, “Duh. Any way, it’s Derek’s turn.”

Derek smiles at Erica, though it’s closer to baring his teeth, “Never have I ever accidentally sent someone to the hospital.”

“I said I was sorry!” She says taking a drink.

Phil pokes Barton when he doesn’t drink, which everyone notices. Barton holds up a hand, “Hey, when I send someone to the hospital, it’s on purpose.”

Phil raises an eyebrow.

“It doesn’t count if I’m the someone.”

Everyone laughs Peter says, “I think it does.”

Clint shrugs and drinks, then it’s his turn, “Never have I ever…,” he catches sight of the mistletoe over the door, “Been kissed under the mistletoe.”

Everyone drinks and he snickers, cutting off short as Coulson grabs his hand and pulls him up, “What are you— oh!” He says as Coulson drags him under the mistletoe.

Part of Phil thinks it’s a crime that Barton’s never been kissed like this, but a deeper, darker part is pleased to be the first.

Coulson cups Clint’s face and pulls him into what starts out as a gentle kiss, soft lips and just a hint of tongue, and then Coulson coaxes Clint’s tongue out to slide against his, their bodies press against each other and Clint clings to Phil, dazed, opening up fully to him, inviting Phil to plunder his mouth.

Who knows how long they would have kissed if Coulson’s family hadn’t started cheering and whistling. They head back to the couch holding hands, both blushing and part of Clint thrills at seeing Coulson his as affected as he is. He makes a snap decision and instead of sitting next to Coulson, slides down to kneel beside him.

Phil breath catches and he brings Clint’s wrist up to his lips in silent thanks and praise. Clint looks around self consciously for a while, but eventually relaxes enough to lean against Phil’s legs and the possessive monster inside him purrs at having Clint content at his feet.

They play for a while, Clint drinking more than the rest, but then he also has a higher tolerance than most people. That being said, he knows how to play to an audience.

It’s late when he’s finishing a story, “So there I am, right? Hangin’ from the tightrope by one hand, tryin’ to hold up my pants with the other, and Barns just laughs ‘n’ tells me I’m on my own.”

“So why didn't you just drop to the net?” Laura asks.

“What net?”

“You hung from a 20 foot drop without a net and your brother just left you there?!”

“Eh, it was fine. It certainly wasn’t the worst situation he’s ever left me in,” Clint shrugs, “‘Sides, if I couldn’t get myself down I deserved to fall. I can promise you one thing, I never made the mistake of turnin’ down a contortionist with a mean streak again.”

“I can’t believe you turned down a contortionist at all,” Erica says.

“You gotta remember, I was pretendin’ to be a dom at the time. There’s only so far confidence can get you. Also, pretty sure all fifteen year olds are morons.”

“I thought you said you’d put a sub Down before?”

“Yep different time. I’ve lost track of how many subs have tried to get under my whip, but Penny was special. God. Penny. He was gorgeous,” Clint sketches out a lithe figure with his hands, “Long red hair, emerald eyes, pouty red lips made for kissing…”

Their kiss goodbye had been one of the sweetest, saddest things in Clint’s life.

“Never thought I’d swing that way, but I might have, for him,” he leans into Phil, a little worried about Phil judging him, or that he might be upset that Clint is taking about being attracted to someone else, but then, Phil already knows about Penny, which is probably why he just runs his fingers through Clint’s hair and Clint relaxes again.

It’s surprisingly nice being at Phil’s feet, and he thinks he might like to try it at home, too.

“Might have?”

“It never would have worked. For a mob boss’s moll he was so naive. Good kid, but naive. Which isn’t somethin’ that’s ever been said of me.”

Shelly yawns and stretches, “Well, Biscotti says it’s bedtime,” she says, patting her belly, “Which means game over. I don’t want to miss any of the juicy bits. Help me up,” she nudges Derek with her foot.

“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Clint says as he and Phil stand. He might be the tiniest bit drunk, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Phil however is annoyingly sober. He kisses Phil’s cheek, “I’ll be in in a little bit.”

Peter stays behind, helping Clint load the dishes into the bar’s dishwasher.

As they finish Peter asks, “So… how much is my cousin paying you?”

“What?!”

“Oh come on, a hot blond piece of ass like you, who doesn’t mind a dom who can’t put him Down the right way? The obviously fake back story? You don’t even use each other’s names. Whatever he’s paying you a night? I’ll double it if you get on your knees right now.”

Clint’s hackles rise, “Go fuck yourself.”

“Maybe you’re just slut for it? Is that it, ‘Clint’,” the oily way Peter says his name, as though if he isn’t even a real person, makes his skin crawl, “Are you an easy Down? Go on. _Get on your knees for me, slut_.”

And he is so very lucky Clint’s learned to control his temper or there’s a very real chance Clint might have killed him in that moment. As it is he effortlessly shrugs off the Order and lifts Peter by his throat, slamming him into the bar, causing the bottles to rattle.

“For Coulson’s sake, I’m going to let you off with a warnin’ instead of breakin somethin’ important; and Peter? Not everyone gets a second chance,” Clint leans over him, using his larger size to emphasize his point, “There won’t be a third. Got it?”

“What the fu— urk!” Peter claws at Clint’s hand when starts squeezing.

“Nod if you understand, asshole.”

Peter struggles a bit more but eventually submits, nodding. Clint lets him go.

“You fucking crazy bitch,” Peter rasps at him as Clint walks away.

Clint flips him off as he walks away, not bothering to look backwards, “Don’t forget to start the dishwasher.”

He’s all wound up. He wants— He needs—

On his way back to the room he passes Noah and Chris’s door and hears Chris cry out, “Oh, Yes, Master!”

That. That’s what he wants.

Clint goes back to the linen closet and grabs one of the gags.

He shuts the bedroom door and tells Coulson, “I need you to spank me until I cry and then keep goin’ until I beg you to stop.”

Barton’s eyes are a hard and his mouth tight, but his breathing is calm and his posture is relaxed. Phil’s having trouble getting a read on him, which is worrisome, “What happened?”

“Nothin’. Peter’s a dick.”

“What did he do, I’ll—” Barton cuts him off with a hand against Coulson’s chest before he can head for the door.

“I handled it.”

Phil needs a beat, he has to wrestle down his Protective instincts, and it’s a near thing, but he says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Clint asks not quite trusting that Coulson means it. He’s the most even keeled dom Clint has ever met, but he’s also possessive as fuck, a trait Clint usually treasures, he’s never had anyone want him the way Coulson does. He’s surprised Coulson doesn’t override him and go to confront Peter.

Clint really doesn’t want him to, ashamed of losing his temper, of overreacting to Peter hitting on him, of the fact that he is an easy Down for Phil. That maybe Peter’s right about him.

“Okay. If you say you handled it, it’s handled.”

“So you’ll do it? The spankin’?”

“Only if you promise me, and I mean really promise me you'll safeword if you need to. And not just if the pain gets to be too much. You start to go somewhere bad in your head, I want you to let me know and we’ll deal with it together,” Phil places his hand over Barton’s, pressing their hands over his heart. He’s far more worried about the knots Barton might tie himself into than anything Phil might be able to do to him, but he trusts Barton to keep his promises.

“I… Okay. I can do that. I promise. Now spank me. Please, Phil. I want— I need to feel it for days.”

Phil closes his eyes and swallows; Clint almost never says ‘please’ and Clint’s plaintive tone strikes at the core of him, redirecting his need to Protect into a drive to Claim, to show Clint he belongs to Phil.

“Alright, sweetheart. Let me get a ball for you to hold and then I’ll help you with the gag. Go ahead and get dressed for bed,” Coulson’s already wearing a pair of low slung sweatpants and a faded long sleeve maroon University of Chicago shirt.

Once Clint’s changed into sweatpants, skipping the shirt, he hands Coulson the gag and takes the small ball, shaking it to see how much force will make it ring for yellow. He’ll need to concentrate on not dropping it instead of being able to fall completely into the spanking, but that’s a good thing. He doesn’t want to go Down, and the risk of dropping the ball should keep him focused on getting the beating he deser- desires.

For a second he debates foregoing the gag, but he’s not sure he will keep quiet enough on his own. Having the gag will help muffle him, but more importantly will give him a reminder to try and remain in control of himself; it will also give him something to bite down on. If Coulson gives him what he’s asking for, he’ll need it.

“How do you want me?” Coulson asks, pushing up his sleeves, “On the bed so that you can be over my lap or standing so that you can be on your knees on the bed.”

Further proof that Clint doesn’t deserve Coulson as his dom. He orders are rare (work doesn’t count); Orders even more so, and then only in the throes of passion.

The last thing Clint wants right now is to get on his knees, and being over Coulson’s lap will also mean more of the body contact he‘s craving, ”Lap.”

“Hand or paddle? Or something else?

“Can… I know it will take longer, but…Hand?”

Phil smiles slightly, “Asking or telling?”

“…Askin’.”

Phil gives the request due consideration, not just going with the hand because it’s what Clint asked for, but really considering what he needs. This isn’t a sexual spanking, but one for a different kind of release.

Clint’s right, the paddle will get him there quicker, but Phil thinks he needs the intimacy of a hand spanking more.

Clint holds his breath while Coulson decides, grateful to not have to make the decision; willing to accept whatever Coulson chooses to give him.

“Hand it is.”

“Thank you… Sir.”

“Turn around,” and something about Coulson’s soft request helps ease some of the jangled up feelings from his confrontation with Peter. He turns and sighs, more tension releasing as Coulson buckles the gag in place.

Coulson’s fingers are gentle as he checks the fit, “Okay?

It isn’t exactly comfortable, but for being off the rack it’s not bad. Clint tests the bite of the mouthpiece, it’s resilient with just the right amount of give. It’s big enough to press down his tongue and seals his mouth so that he’ll be breathing almost entirely through his nose. It’s perfect. Clint nods and gives a thumbs up.

Phil sits on the side of the bed and props up the pillows around himself, settling in for a long scene. It’s already late, and the morning is going to be rough, but his sub needs him right now so it’s worth any future discomfort, “I’m ready for you.”

Clint starts to pull down his pants, but Phil stops him with a hand on his wrist, “No. We’ll start with them up. I want to give you plenty of time to warm up.”

Clint lets go of his pants and twists his hand so that he can grab Phil’s and squeeze it before getting into position.

“I’m going to start slow. Don’t try to rush me. If you need to, grunt three times, tap my leg three times, or shake the ball and we can check in. You have trouble breathing for even a second and you will drop the ball and tap my leg. _Got it_?” The guilt of using his Voice to force his sub to do anything is overruled by the monster’s need to Protect, and it’s a small enough thing that Phil gives in.

Phil barely uses his Voice, it’s light enough that Clint’s in control of his dive into subspace, keeping it shallow, barely a toe in then back up; but now it will stay close, ready to take him the second he lets himself be distracted. Clint rolls his eyes dramatically, even though Phil can’t see it, and huffs through his nose as he nods; he knows what he’s doing.

“Show me.”

Clint shifts, growling his impatience, he wants to get on with it already, but he knows the only way the scene will happen is if Phil gets his safety check. He does all three, one after another.

True to his word, Phil starts slow, which isn’t to say lightly. Each smack is solid. Grounding. But he takes his time building up, and when Phil’s finally ready to tug Clint’s pants down past the curve of his ass, Clint’s lost count and his ass is pleasantly warm. Clint isn’t breathing heavy yet, but it takes a significant amount of his focus to keep it that way.

He’s still too much in his own head as Phil’s hand comes down on his bare ass and in the spaces in between each slap he replays the confrontation with Peter, as well as all his knowing looks and sly smiles.

The spanks actually hurt now and he has to bite down on the gag to remember to be quiet.

Peter’s an ass, but Clint must have done something to lead him on, to make him think that Clint was cheap or easy. Peter obviously clocked him as soon as they had met, Clint hadn’t even bothered to straighten himself up after his nap with Coulson, and he knew Peter was hitting on him at dinner but he hadn’t done anything about it.

Clint’s never seen anything wrong with sex work. He’s spent his entire life honing his body like a weapon, he made a career out of selling himself. He’s traded his body directly for money, he’s used sex to get close to a mark, and would be willing do so again. SHIELD agents aren’t encouraged to do so, but they’re not really discouraged either. Hell, there’s even a form for it.

He wouldn’t do it now without checking with Phil first. It’s not that Phil owns him, it’s a matter of respect. There’s playing their little jealousy games and then there’s doing something that might actually hurt Phil.

Fuck. It’s starting to hurt now. He’s wincing with each blow and has to hide the way he wants to whimper when a hard strike lands just right.

Would it bother Phil to know how easily Clint has sold himself in the past, how easy he would find it to do again? Does he already know? Clint jokes about Phil knowing everything, but that’s only because it’s true. And even if Phil knows, does he care? Clint can’t imagine him reacting with the sneer Peter had but what if he’s wrong. What if Phil feels the same way? The heat in his ass is starting to edge closer to a constant burn, but it can’t touch the ache of wondering if Phil thinks he’s as much of a… a slut as Peter does.

Peter is right about one thing, Clint isn’t good enough for Phil.

It takes longer than Phil would have guessed for Clint to relax down into his lap. Whatever Peter has done it’s wound up Clint tighter than a two dollar watch. It had taken several minutes to work him up to a bare assed spanking and even now Clint starts to tense up again if Phil gives him too much time to recover when he pauses.

After another minute Clint’s ass is bright red and he shifts in obviously aborted attempts to pull away each time Phil’s hand connects with his skin. He’s still completely silent and if he doesn’t make a sound soon, Phil’s going to yellow.

Phil can’t take much more of this. Whatever pain his sub is in, he’s still not ready to share it and it’s starting to break Phil’s heart.

It’s not too much longer until the first time Clint actually pulls away, trying to scramble forward out of Phil’s lap to avoid Phil’s stinging hand. He doesn’t shake or drop the ball though, so Phil puts one hand on Clint’s shoulder and one on his hip and brings him back into position. He holds him in place with the hand on his shoulder and rubs soothing circles on Clint’s cherry red ass, making shushing noses and murmuring, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you and we’re both staying right here.”

It hurts, and Clint can feel subspace trying to wash over him, to ease some of the pain into pleasure but he doesn’t want that. He wants it to hurt. He wants the pain to stay pain. Even when he starts to pull away part of him is relieved when Phil pulls him back. He tries to curl in on himself as Phil’s words wash over him, and part of him wants to fight them too, but a deeper part lets the comfort wash over him.

Once Clint’s breathing evens out Phil starts back up where he left off.

Clint’s eyes start to water, but he isn’t really crying, not yet. ‘ _You’re just a slut for it._ ’ Fucking Peter. He shouldn’t even be thinking about the dom, not while on Phil’s lap, while Phil gives him what he needs, while he supposed to be submitting to Phil.

He almost wants to laugh at himself, would if it wouldn’t come across as hysterical; this isn’t submission.

This is taking.

Demanding.

Greedy.

He should have asked to blow Phil instead, to get the taste of Peter’s words out of his mouth.

Except no, that would be using Phil even worse than he already is and Phil deserves better. Not to mention Phil would have seen through him in a second.

He needs to let go. To give in. Subspace is calling to him, offering him a surcease from his turmoil but still he resists.

Every time Phil thinks they’ve made a breakthrough, Clint tenses up again. Up until now Phil has varied the location of each strike and rubbed Clint’s ass every couple of seconds. His hand has started to throb and his arm is getting tired. Phil grabs Clint’s arm and twists it up behind his back, pinning him in place, and he starts to spank him over and over in the same spot without pausing, “You need to let go, Clint, and we’re staying just like this until you do. I don’t care if it takes all night. Just let me hear you, sweetheart, I promise, I’ll give you everything you need. I’ve got you, Clint. I’ve got you and I’m not letting go. Just let it out.”

Phil grabbing his arm gives him leeway to struggle a little more; he could get free if he really needed to, but if Phil’s serious about holding him it would mean dislocating his shoulder and he won’t do that to Phil. He pulls and pushes, seeking the limits of his captivity. He keeps his grip on the ball with his free hand, not letting a hint of a jingle out.

“Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me. You know you want to. I want to hear you cry. Can you do that? Can you be good for me and let me hear you?”

And that’s what does it, that’s what finally tears a sob out of Clint’s throat and tears from his eyes and he starts crying in earnest.

Phil is relentless. He switches up the spanking, alternating between both cheeks, but doesn’t slow down or pause. If anything the strikes come faster and harder, “That’s it Clint, give it to me. Give me everything.”

Clint bucks up in his arms, fighting Phil and himself as he cries and cries and cries. He’s shaking his head ‘no’ and whimpering, trying to beg through the gag though he doesn’t know if he’s begging Phil to stop or for more, to make him really hurt, to make him feel it until there’s nothing left but Phil and the pain Phil gives him, ruthless in his mercy.

The void opens beneath Clint and suddenly he’s Down, there’s no transition, no Sinking or Falling; one second he’s Up and the next he’s Under and the pain becomes oh so sweet and he shudders and moans long and deep.

Phil feels Clint’s entire body shake as he moans and he stops struggling. Clint’s not still, but he is pliant, moving almost languidly with each stroke, no longer trying to pull out of Phil’s grasp but rather pushing into it.

“There you are sweetheart, there you are. That’s my good boy. So good for me,” he knows better than to slow down or stop, he needs to keep his rhythm so that he doesn’t accidentally pull Clint out of subspace too soon, “I’ve got you. I’m so proud of you. Thank you, baby. Thank you for being so good.”

Clint trembles and weeps in his Master’s hold, giving himself over fully, a creature of pure sensation under his Master’s Control.

Phil’s arm his burning, and he’s crying, too; awed by the gift of Clint’s submission; he’s Down deeper than he’s ever been without Phil’s voice and Phil can barely breath for the love that feels filling his chest.

Eventually, Clint reaches his limit, that point where no matter how much he wants to, he can’t take anymore, where the pain and pleasure are just too overwhelming. Phil sees it the second Clint’s grip on the ball loosens and stops the spanking before the ball hits the floor.

“Come here, baby,” Phil says, pulling his sweatpants up and dragging a sobbing Clint to sit on his lap. Clint flinches at the fabric against his skin and then cries out behind the gag as his ass makes contact with Phil’s leg.

Phil removes the gag, setting it on the nightstand, and grabs a couple tissues to clean Clint’s face, “There you go. I’ve got you sweetheart, let it all out.”

He holds Clint close, rubbing his hands up and down Clint’s arms as he buries his head in the crook of Phil’s neck, his sobs softening as he starts to cry himself out.

Phil pets and soothes him and when it seems like Clint is ready asks, “Can you lie down on the bed for me? I want to ice you down before you go to sleep.”

Clint nods, but then clings like a monkey when Phil tries to move him, so they sit together for a while longer. Eventually Phil’s able to get Clint on his stomach and go grab an ice pack, wrapping it up in a towel he rests it on Clint’s ass.

Phil strokes his hand through Clint’s hair and continues to praise him as he starts to come Up out of subspace.

“How are you doing sweetheart?” Phil asks a couple times, eventually he gets a response, though it’s a little slurred.

“Good, Sir.”

“Good. When your ready I have some water and a couple ibuprofen for you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No. I mean, thank you. For the… I needed that. Thank you, Phil.”

“It was my honor, Clint. Here,” Phil has a glass of water he praises Clint as he drinks, “You did so well for me, I’m so proud of you, asking for what you needed and then taking it so wonderfully.”

He can tell Clint’s fully Up when he starts trying to shrug off the praise.

After the ice pack has had fifteen minutes to help with any swelling, Phil pulls Clint’s sweats back down, just under the curve of his scarlet ass. He whimpers, and Phil shushes him, not a quieting sound, but one meant for comfort, “Shhh, you’re okay, we’re done spanking for the night, but I do want to rub in some lotion, it will make you feel better.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Wanna feel it. Wan’ it to last.”

“It will sweetheart, it’s going to bruise beautifully, but I want to keep your skin soft and sensitive for the next time. Don’t you want that too?”

Clint pouts but says, “‘Kay,” and then isn’t sure why he objected in the first place. His ass had been feeling cold from the ice, but quickly warms back as Phil gently massages him. He’s drifting off to sleep by the time Phil pulls his pants up, and then Phil helping him get under the covers, joining him, and turning off the night light.

Phil settles Clint against his chest and kisses the top of his head. Clint tilts his head back so that Phil can kiss his lips. His mouth aches from the gag, and he relishes the small hurt as Phil’s lips softly capture his. Clint tries to deepen the kiss and Phil pulls back, so Clint kisses down his jaw to his neck as he cups Phil’s dick. Phil gently grabs his wrist and says, “No.”

Clint asks, “Don’t you want me to—“

“I want you to go to sleep.”

“But I can—”

“We both need our rest.”

“But—”

Phil brings their hands up to rest on his chest where the can both feel the steady beat of his heart, “Be a good boy, Clint, and go to sleep.”

Clint’s breath catches, “Yes, Sir.”


	4. Chapter Four

Clint wakes up to the smell of coffee and warm pie. He blinks his eyes open against the brightness of the room and sees Coulson, dressed for the day in jeans and a flour dusted light blue button up with the top three buttons undone; he’s not wearing an undershirt and the sleeves are rolled to his elbows. As good as he looks Clint’s eyes are drawn to the steaming cup of coffee Coulson is holding out towards him. He leans up on one arm takes it gratefully. After a long sip he moans, “Oh God, collar me.”

Coulson laughs, “Dad’s the one that made it.”

“Then he can collar me.”

Coulson laughs again, “Pretty sure mom would have something to say about that.”

“She can collar me, too,” Clint takes another long sip, “Fuck, that’s good.”

“How about instead of anyone collaring anybody, you let me take a look at your bruises and then hop in the shower?”

“Only if you join me. And promise me more coffee.”

“Done and done.”

Barton isn’t willing to set down his coffee and is adorably clumsy as he gets out from under the covers and eases his pants down one handed with a soft, “Oh,” as the waist band briefly presses into his red, black, and blue skin, before propping himself up on his elbows.

Moving around has reminded Clint of just how much Coulson gave him last night; his ass will be sore for at least the next few days and he’s going to have to be careful sitting down for a while.

He can’t think of a single better way to wake up than to coffee and bruises. He sips away as Coulson massages him, losing track of time and not even realizing that he’s slipped Under the edge of subspace until Phil’s taking his empty cup away and urging him back Up.

“Hmmmm, do I have to? Couldn’t we just spend all morning fucking?”

Jesus, is Clint tempting like this. Phil has just spent several minutes with his hands all over his sub’s ass, tracing his marks with a possessive thrill, listening to his murmurs of pleasure as he drank the coffee Phil had brought him, his eyes are heavy lidded and his voice is dripping with sex. But Phil stands by his choice not to have sex under his parents roof and, besides, everyone else is already up; Phil had let Clint sleep in and it was almost time for lunch.

Phil’s inner sadist smiles; just because he doesn’t have any intention of fucking his delectable sub, doesn’t mean he can’t fuck with him. One of his favorite things is to wind both of them up and then deny them for as long as possible, “No, I told you. “No sex.” But I can give you something to think about.”

He kisses Clint’s coffee flavored lips and then returns to his ass and bites down, hard, right above the crease between his ass and his thigh where Clint will feel it every time he sits down, a bright point of pain against the backdrop of his bruised ass.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck me!” He shouts, and then pants as Phil kisses the bite mark and pulls up his sweats, “Oh, you fucking bastard.”

“You’re welcome.”

Clint drops his empty coffee cup on the nightstand and twists to grab Phil’s shirt, seeking Phil’s mouth out with his own, but is thwarted by Phil’s fingers on his lips, “Shower.”

Clint whimpers and rests his forehead against Phil’s, “You’re the worst.”

“Keep complaining and you can shower on your own.”

Clint’s fingers clench in Phil’s shirt as he gets control of himself and he says, through gritted teeth, “Did I say worst? I meant best,” in a tone that heavily implies the opposite.

Phil laughs softly and pries Clint’s fingers off of his shirt, “Go use the bathroom and brush your teeth, I’ll make the bed and then be right behind you. The sooner we shower the sooner you can have more coffee.”

Clint brightens up, “I am one hundred percent certain I could drink it in the shower.”

“I’m one hundred percent certain I’m not letting you.”

Clint sighs dramatically but follows Phil’s instructions.

When Phil joins him he turns on the water then leans against the shower door frame and watches Clint with a hungry stare.

Clint can’t help but taunt Phil with a little striptease as he takes off his sweatpants, flexing his muscles, swiveling his hips as he turns around, just barely pulling down the sweats before letting them up again, playing peek-a-boo with his bruises; he’s not sure how long he could keep it up, as Phil crowds him up against the wall, Phil’s front to his back, and pins his wrists over his head, leaving his sweats to fall around his ankles.

Phil inhales against Clint’s skin, running his nose from yesterday’s hickey at the join of his neck up to behind his ear, and then Phil growls, making Clint’s knees weak, “Behave.”

“Unf. Yes, Sir,” Clint says, his eyes fluttering shut as Phil crowds up behind him and bites the other side of his neck. Phil presses Clint’s hands against the wall in a silent order to keep them in place. He turns Clint’s head and ghosts his lips over Clint’s, close enough that Clint can feel their warmth, close enough to lick, but Phil told him to behave and while his lips part, he keeps his tongue to himself. Clint moans as he feels Phil’s mouth retreat.

“Good boy.”

“Fuck you, Coulson. You’re such a God damned tease.”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Hell, no,” he opens his opens his eyes, baby blue boring into Phil’s own hazel blue eyes, “Never.”

Phil licks his thumb and then uses it to circle Clint’s nipple, then pinches it. Clint’s hips stutter and he moans as clenching his bruised ass sends waves of pleasure/pain through him, “God, Phil,” he gasps shaking his head, Phil knows how sensitive his nipples are, how the sweet torture pushes Clint the the edge of his control, “I was wrong; I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” Phil twists Clint’s other nipple, holding it tight as Clint arches back into Phil, trying to pull away but trapped between Phil’s body and his fingers, “And do you want to know why?”

“Why?” He cries out as Phil’s nails scrape across his nipples, “Fuck.”

Phil kisses his way across Clint’s jaw towards his mouth, but once again pulls away before their lips can meet, prompting a frustrated groan from Clint. Phil bites Clint’s ear and then says, using that part of his register that’s just almost but not quite his Voice, “Because I told you to.”

Clint whimpers and Phil presses his leg between Clint’s; Clint pulls his feet out of his sweatpants and spreads his legs, making himself feel that much more vulnerable, “Now, we’re going to shower and if you’re very, very, good, you can have your choice: a kiss when we’re done, or wait and get as many kisses as you want when we go to bed tonight. If you take the first one it will have to last you until tomorrow morning, a little incentive for you to show me a little,” Phil smirks, “Restraint.”

“Fuck.”

Either way will be as much torture for Phil as it is for Clint.

Clint thrusts back and forth and riding Phil’s thigh, “Do I have to pick right now?”

“Hmmm,” Phil lets go of his nipples and runs his thumb just under Clint’s lower lip, “No. You can decide to take the single kiss anytime after we get out of the shower. Or misbehave and get nothing, I suppose. But then you would never misbehave would you?”

“Of course not!”’Clint says in mock outrage, though part of him is secretly sincere. He always tries to behave. Or at least, to never misbehave more than it takes to make Phil smile, or retaliate in all the ways that he knows Clint loves, including some he loves to hate, or to look at him so tenderly it’s like he never wants to let Clint go.

It’s almost like he means it when he says he accepts Clint flaws and all— no, not in spite of them but with them. That maybe someday Phil might even be able to love him.

“Good. Then get in.”

Clint bites after Phil’s thumb, earning a single, sharp, spank and he can’t quite hold back his yelp, “Ah!”

Phil’s much more economical in stripping off his shirt and jeans and he’s just a step behind Clint as he gets under the warm spray. Phil shuts the glass door behind him, trapping the steam around them. Clint’s under the water, head thrown back as it pours down over him, tracing lines down his body.

Phil takes a moment to admire the view and then reaches past Clint for a loofah and lathers it up, “Let me wash you.”

“Mmmm, yes, Sir,” Clint says with a playful grin, holding his hands out to his sides. Phil has them turn so that most of the spray is flowing over him instead of Clint and starts soaping his sub’s body, taking his time, running his slick fingers over every dip and curve.

He tips Clint’s head back and strokes his throat, his thumb moving down Clint’s Adam’s apple and into the hollow where steam has beaded and started to drip down Clint’s chest.

Then Phil continues down one arm, gripping Clint’s bicep, his hand not even reaching halfway around. He scrubs down his forearm and then Phil lifts his arm and is gentle with the sensitive skin of his armpit and inner arm to his elbow, continuing to slowly wash his arm until he reaches the thin skin of Clint’s wrist, wrapping it in his fingers and squeezing. Clint moans softly and Phil can tell Clint’s starting to slip Under by the way his breathing changes and his pupils grow wide.

“You going Down for me, baby?” Phil asks voice rich and dark the way Clint likes his coffee. He caresses Clint’s palm with his thumb and then circles and pulls each individual finger, rubbing up and down between them.

Clint says, “Thinkin’ about it,” and then sighs when, after rinsing him, Phil kisses the inside of Clint’s wrist, licks up to his palm, and sucks on each finger before washing Clint’s hand again in that same slow seductive way.

“Sir…” Clint whispers as Phil worships his hand and Clint continues to Sink into subspace.

Phil lets go and gives Clint’s other arm the same treatment, this time also scraping his teeth across the calloused tips of Clint’s fingers, making him shiver.

Clint’s starting to Float, the dull throbbing of his ass melting into the beat of his heart. His skin tingles and it feels like there’s a thread connecting his fingers to his wrists up to his throat and then to his nipples and down to his dick, which is curving up towards his stomach as if reaching for Phil.

He can see Phil’s equally affected, his nipples are pebbled in their dark thatch of hair, which leads down to his treasure trail pointing the way to Phil’s own erect dick. Clint wants to reach out and touch him.

Phil sees Clint’s aborted movement and asks, “Do you want something to do with your hands, my own?”

“O-oh,” Clint’s eyes flutter, it’s the first time Phil’s used that endearment and it makes him feel… it makes him _feel_. He licks his wet lips, sucking on the bottom one and pulling it through his teeth as he reaches out for Phil’s dick, “Fuck, yeah.”

Phil stops him, taking each of his wrists and moving his hands behind his back, placing them on his ass and using them to grab Clint’s bruised flesh. Clint lets out an almost whimper and Phil says, “Everytime you want to reach for me I want you to squeeze your ass instead, as hard as you can.”

“Oh, fuck, Phil,” Clint squeezes and this time does whimper.

“Good boy,” he growls. Even after a couple of months of being together, his name on Clint’s lips sends a rush down his spine and wakes the darkness he normally keeps hidden deep inside.

Clint squeezes again and he has to shut his eyes at the naked hunger in Phil’s gaze before he’s caught in a terminal loop of hurting himself for his dom’s pleasure. He’s riding the waves of subspace now, sometimes Up and sometimes Down, feeling it crest around him. He knows the riptide is out there, waiting for him, but he wants to stay as present as he can for this.

“Eyes on me,” earns Phil another whimper from his submissive, and as Phil strokes his thumbs across Clint’s collarbones and then downward Clint continues to squeeze his ass and whimper, the pleasure/pain/pleasure threatening to sweep him away.

Phil palms Clint’s pecs, and then swirls both Clint’s nipples with his thumbs; Clint is overwhelmed and backs away from Phil into the slick shower wall, crying out as it pushes his fingers more firmly into his ass.

Clint eyes plead with Phil, but he is implacable, “Come back here.”

Clint shakes his head ‘no’.

“Do you want to earn your kiss or not?”

And now Clint can’t do anything but stare at Phil’s mouth and he bites his lip, wanting Phil’s kiss more than anything but before Clint can reach out for him, he remembers to instead squeeze his ass and the pleasure/pain tries to suck him Under. He moans low in his throat but forces himself to step hesitantly back in place as he resists the pull of subspace.

“Good boy.”

“Fuck, you’re killing me, Sir.”

“You can take it, Clint. You want to, don’t you? For me?”

Clint cries out as he squeezes again and it’s almost too much. He takes a deep breath and nods, “Yes. For you, Phil.”

His beast roars and for a moment it nearly slips his iron grip, wanting to mark Clint, to fuck him, to make him cry and beg and moan, but he knows the payoff for making them wait will be worth it and reigns himself in.

Phil returns to washing Clint’s chest, playing special attention to his nipples and Clint flinches but stays in place. Clint’s hips thrust each time he squeezes his ass. Suddenly he has to tighten his grip so hard he shouts as he imagines throwing off the invisible yoke of Phil’s control, grabbing him around the waist and neck and taking the kiss he wants. Would Phil let him, or would he use his Voice to stop Clint? Which would be better for Phil?

Phil smiles twisting Clint’s nipples, watching and waiting as he goes through some internal struggle; Phil’s a patient man and it’s a tankless water heater. They’ll stay here all day if they needed to, his family be damned.

Clint shakes off the fantasy, and thinks he’s through the worst of Phil’s torment as he moves on to Clint’s abs when Phil asks, “What was that?”

“What was what?” Clint asks, trying to dodge the question.

Phil raises an eyebrow and Clint sighs, “I thought about trying to kiss you and about whether you would let me or Tell me to stop.”

“And which would you prefer?” He washes over Clint’s hips and down his iliac furrows, but avoids Clint’s straining dick, instead dipping a finger into Clint’s belly button in shallow thrusts and Clint thinks it’s more erotic than it should be.

“I don’t know.”

“Is that something you would like, a little Voice play?”

“I— Maybe? I know you don’t like—”

“We can start slow. If either of us gets uncomfortable, we’ll ‘yellow’.”

“Yeah. Okay. I think I’d like to try,” Clint’s nervous, they both have their Vocal hang ups and this is new territory for them.”

“ _Stay_ ,” Phil Whispers, and even with Phil’s lightest touch it’s almost overwhelming, the riptide coming up to meet him, subspace swirling around and threatening to pull him so far Under he loses all sense of reason. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. He lets the Command take hold, not trying to fight it the way his instincts are screaming at him to.

“ _Eyes on me_ ,” Phil continues, and then goes to his knees.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, Phil,” it never ceases to amaze him, how at ease Phil looks on his knees. Most doms would look uncomfortable, if they were willing to do it at all.

Phil hides his tremble at the open and vulnerable look on Clint’s face. He’d spent years learning to control his Voice, afraid of what he might do, what he might become if he gave it free reign. All of his hard work pays off at being able to Control his submissive without overwhelming him.

Phil continues to avoid Clint’s dick, but now Clint thinks it’s a blessing; he’s pretty sure his mind would explode at being Ordered to stay still while Phil touches his dick.

Phil washes each leg and Clint’s feet and then stands and has him turn, “ _Lean over, hands against the wall_.”

“Fuck,” it’s too much, dragging him down into the void, away from all sense, and this time he does try to fight it but it feels like he’s tearing himself apart and his hands are against the shower wall against his will, “Oh, yellow! Fuck, I’m sorry Phil, yellow.”

“You’re okay, my own, you’re okay, you did so well. I’m so proud of you,” Phil blinks away grateful tears, and he thanks God for whatever twist of fate brought Clint Barton into his life. He never thought he’d be able to be this free, to be able to Command and have a sub would could safeword if they wanted to.

The pressure of the Order ebbs and Clint turns back, seeking the shelter of Phil’s arms, Phil hugs him tight and murmurs nonsense sounds of comfort. Clint feels the jangled nerves in him settle and is swamped by embarrassment, “I’m sorry. Fuck, what kind of sub yellows over something so stupid.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Phil cups Clint’s face and looks him in the eyes, “You have no idea what a precious gift it is to me that you trust me so much; and even more that you not only can, but do tell me when it gets to be too much.”

“Promise?” Clint asks the corner of his lip twisting in the way that says he can’t help but ask even though he wishes he could. He has had a history of dominants using him and then leaving him when they found out he could resist their Orders whenever he wanted to. No, not just when he wanted to but, rather, whether or not he wanted to. Phil’s the first dominant who not only could force him Down, but would also never want to.

“Promise.”

“I killed the mood, didn’t I?”

“Clint Barton, if you think there’s ever a time when I don’t want you, think again. The only thing that could ruin a scene for me is if we do something that makes you feel bad and you don’t tell me.”

Clint responds with a cocky grin, “Promise?”

“Promise,” Phil says with heat, leaning in as if for a kiss but once again denying them both at the last second.

“Motherfucker!” Clint swears.

Phil lets him go and has him turn, “Lean over, hands against the wall.”

Clint does so, this time of his own free will, spreading his legs and wiggling his bruised ass. Phil soaps up his back, taking his time to massage out every knot he finds, and then moving from the small of Clint’s back to his ass. He starts gentle but gets rougher and rougher until Clint’s panting and moaning; Phil presses down on the bite mark on his ass and feels the change in Clint as he slips back Under.

Everything takes on a dreamlike quality for Clint; the buzzy floaty feeling flowing through and around him until he feels like he’s flying. Phil rubs up and down his crack and then he feels a slick finger breach him and he cries out, “Oh, yes! Please, Sir?”

“Please what, baby,” Phil asks, his voice gravelly with need, all thoughts of restraining himself in his parents house having fled.

“More. I want more.”

Clint feels a warm soapy hand wrap around his dick and start stroking. He moans low and deep, it feels amazing but it’s not enough, “More, please?”

“Hold yourself open for me, Clint.”

“Oh, God; yes, Sir,” Clint reaches back and spreads his ass open, moaning as his fingers dig into his bruised skin and Phil twists his finger in and out of Clint’s hole, “More; I can take more. Anything, please, I can take it.”

Phil lets go of his dick, but before Clint can protest he’s flinching as Phil directs the warm spray directly over his asshole, “Fuck.”

Phil uses his fingers and the spray, washing him completely, and then he feels the water get blocked, Phil’s hands around his thighs and his mouth against Clint’s asshole and he shouts, “Ohgodohfuckohfuck, FUCK! PHIL!” Phil starts eating his ass in earnest and Clint feels his legs tremble.

They had talked about this in the past and Clint had known it was on the table, that Phil had said it was something he enjoyed doing, that it was something he wanted to do, but Clint had never actually believed it would happen.

There’s nothing in the world like feeling Clint fall to pieces under his mouth and Phil licks his way into Clint’s hole until he’s thrusting his tongue in and out the tight ring of muscle.

“OH, GOD, PLEASE, FUCK, PHIL.”

Clint’s been on the other end enough times to know that for the most part he could take it or leave it but now that he’s experienced it for himself he wants to do it for Phil knowing how good it feels, how good he could make it for Phil and, God, as if Phil hadn’t already ruined him for any other dom, it’s something Clint knows he’ll want to receive more of in the future.

Clint’s slick enough from the water and Phil’s mouth that Phil’s finger slides into the second knuckle with ease and he presses down on Clint’s prostrate and Clint’s gone, swallowed by the riptide, pulled so far Down that everything is sensation, Phil’s mouth is hot and slick and his finger firm and relentless as it pulls him inside out; the sound of the water and Phil’s pleased moans intertwine with Clint’s shouts and everything is electric and then just as he thinks he’s about to explode it stops, “NO! OH, NO! PLEASE! PHIL, PLEASE!”

Phil disregards Clint’s plea, kissing his way up Clint’s spine as Clint sobs. He bites the back of Clint’s neck and presses his dick between Clint’s cheeks and for a moment the monster takes control and he slips the tip of his dick into Clint’s tight ass, ready to take him with nothing more than spit and water, wanting to hurt him and own him and mark him inside and out.

“Yes! Take me. TAKE ME, MASTER!”

That breaks through to Phil; it’s something Clint’s only called him once before, a couple of weeks ago when he was so gone with pleasure and pain, more pain than Phil had ever given him before, that Clint had lost himself completely. Phil jerks away.

At Clint’s broken sound of loss Phil gathers him up, holding his back to Phil’s front, petting him as they both calm down and Clint slowly comes Up.

“What? That was… what happened?” Clint remembers Phil’s hand on his dick and finger in his ass, of Phil eating him out until his eyes rolled back, then nothing but pain tinted pleasure, followed by a sense of loss before coming back to himself, feeling Phil’s tears against his neck and Phil’s arms around him surrounded by steam and warm water. If not for a slight echo of loss, he’d be completely content.

“I’m sorry, I let things get a little too intense.”

“I’m just sorry you stopped.”

“No, don’t be. I almost hurt you, really hurt you. I almost took something from you that you haven’t agreed too— Clint, I don’t think I could live with myself if I ever caused you harm.”

“You won’t,” Clint turns and holds Phil in his arms, using his larger size maneuver them more fully under the water.

“I could,” Clint doesn’t know how dangerous Phil really is; and while Phil hopes he never finds out, part of Phil will always worry that someday he will.

“Nope,” Clint pops the ‘p’, “Not possible.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he looks at Clint as if he’s drowning and Clint’s the only one who can save him.

“That’s my line, get your own.”

“Maybe we could just both count ourselves lucky,” Phil leaning in to kiss Clint only to be stopped by Clint.

“Wait. I decided. I want to save them for later.”

“You still want to play, after,” Phil gestures vaguely, “All that?”

Clint smirks, “I don’t want just to play, I want to win. Wait, no, I don’t just want to win, I want to beat you.”

“‘Beat me’?”

“As epic as your restraint is,” Phil smiles as Clint continues, “I think you’ll break before I do. I’m willing to bet I can wait until tonight to kiss you, but I think you’re going to give in first.”

Phil doesn’t laugh like Clint expects him to; Clint is the embodiment of poor impulse control.

Instead he gets that hungry look, the one that makes Clint feel hunted in all the best ways, “So, you want to make a side bet that you won’t have to wait until bed because I’ll break before then?”

Clint nods and licks his lips.

“Are we playing for bragging rights, or forfeit?”

Phil breaks their gaze, unable to take the intensity, and lets go of Clint, grabbing the shampoo. He turns Clint and begins lathering up his hair and Clint moans in pleasure. He loses himself in the feel of Phil’s fingers against his scalp and the gentle tug of his hair.

“Clint?”

Clint’s not sure what Phil just asked, which is really Phil’s own fault for distracting Clint, “What?”

Phil laughs softly, “I asked if we were playing for bragging rights or something more?”

“Mmmm, I always like more.”

Phil tilts Clint’s head under the water to rinse his hair then turns him back around to wash and rinse his face. Phil kisses up his jawline to his ear, “What kind of more?”

“I haven’t decided,” there really isn’t anything he wouldn’t give Phil, or that Phil wouldn’t give him if he just asked, which always makes setting stakes difficult.

Clint smiles, coming to a decision, “If I win and you break first, you’ll give me an orgasm whenever I ask for a week.”

Phil chuckles and takes Clint’s hand. He kisses up from inside Clint’s elbow to his wrist, “And when I win?” He scrapes his teeth against Clint’s pulse point and his intense hazel blue gaze makes Clint feel pinned in place and Clint loves it.

“ _If_ you win, I’ll let you edge me for a week.”

Phil gasps and closes his eyes as he bites down, hard, not quite but almost breaking the skin. Clint moans and thrusts up against him, their dicks sliding smoothly against each other under the slick spray, “Oh, fuck. I knew you’d like that.”

The longest Clint’s gone before was three days and by the time it was over he thought he would explode every time Phil touched him. He’s not sure he can last a week, but he’s not planning on losing.

Phil lets go of Clint’s wrist and grabs his ass, squeezing until Clint cries out. He wraps his other hand around both their dicks stroking them hard and fast just the way Clint likes and Clint feels his orgasm rushing towards him when Phil suddenly stops and pulls away.

“No! Oh, fuck, you bastard, just let me come already.”

“I almost forgot; no sex in the house.”

“Hasn’t that ship already sailed?” Clint asks geasturing at his still throbbing dick.

“Bad behavior in the past is no excuse for bad behavior now.”

“Argh. You're the worst,” Clint says leaning his head down on Phil’s shoulder. He asks, “What about masturbating? You can’t tell me you never pulled one off in the shower.”

“That’s… that’s fair,” Phil says, “I tell you what, I’ll give you another choice.”

Clint groans.

“We can watch each other jerk off, but we can’t touch each other…” he eyes Clint up and down and Clint feels his entire body throb.

“Or?”

“Or you can give me a hand job but you don’t get to come.”

“You’re fucking killing me.”

“If you don't want to choose I can just turn off the water and we can get out now.”

“No! Fuck. No,” Clint says, and then surprises Phil by saying, “You. I want to touch you. I want…”

He trails off and looks away embarrassed.

“What do you want, Clint?”

“I want to serve you,” he says so quietly Phil isn’t sure he heard him correctly.

“Say it again, louder.”

“I,” Clint has to swallow and he steadies his voice, “I want to serve you, Sir.”

“Oh, Clint,” Phil pulls him close and Phil’s lips are nearly on Clint’s when he catches himself. He looks into Clint’s eyes, his brow furrowed, “Did you just say that to try and win our game?”

Clint’s eyes get wide and he shakes his head, “No. I meant it. You make me— I want— I want to.”

Phil kisses his cheek, just missing his mouth, “Okay, baby, make me come.”

Clint shivers and reaches between them to start stroking Phil’s dick just the way Phil likes, twisting his hand down loosely and tightening as he strokes up, palming the head before twisting his hand down again.

“May I get on my knees, Sir?”

“Go ahead.”

Clint sinks gracefully down to the warm tile. He uses his other hand to cup Phil’s balls, squeezing one and then the other, fondling them together.

Phil groans and tilts his head back under the spray, letting the water fall down around them.

“May I use my mouth?”

“No. Hands only.”

“What if I only use it here,” he nuzzles just inside Phil’s hip.

“I’ll allow it.”

Clint kisses and sucks at Phil’s skin, leaving a hickey as his hands work his dom’s dick.

“And here?” He looks up at Phil, is tongue millimeters away from the soft skin just above his dick.

Phil nods his permission.

Once Clint’s left another hickey, he begs, “Please let me suck your balls? I promise not to use my mouth on your dick. Please, Sir?”

“Fuck,” Phil grabs Clint by the hair, “I feel your mouth on my dick and you won’t come for a week, bet or no bet.”

“Oh, fuck. Yes, Sir. I won’t, I’ll be good,” Clint moans as Phil tilts Clint’s head and brings it down to his balls. Clint lifts Phil’s dick out of the way, still stroking and palming and twisting. Water runs down Phil’s body and over his balls and Clint sucks it away and then laps at Phil’s warm, wet balls. Clint moans again and says, “Thank you, Phil.”

Phil thrusts into Clint’s hand as he tightens his grip in Clint’s hair.

Clint’s in that head space that isn’t Down, but isn’t all the way Up either. He has to hold on to Phil’s hip with his free hand to keep from touching himself as he sucks on Phil’s balls, pulling them into his mouth one at a time. He moans and squeezes both hands.

“Oh, God, Clint. Just like that. You feel so good, sweetheart.”

“Please, can I touch myself, Sir?”

“Can you do it without coming?”

Clint nods, he knows it will be that much harder not to come, but he needs to touch himself, his balls ache and his dick is throbbing and he thinks he might die from everything he’s feeling, “Please, Sir?”

“Go on then, let me see you touch yourself. Keep sucking my balls until I’m ready to come on your face.”

“Fuck! Yes, Sir.”

Clint starts by just cupping his dick and balls, hoping to take the pressure off, but that’s not enough and soon he’s stroking himself in time to his hand on Phil’s dick. The only way he can keep from getting his tongue on Phil’s dick is by keeping his mouth busy on Phil’s balls. He loses himself him in the heat and the pleasure and the sparks of pain, both from his bruised and bitten body and from the sweeter pain of holding himself back, of torturing himself for his Mast— his dominant’s pleasure.

God, Clint is perfect, he’s everything Phil’s ever dreamed of having in a sub and more; snarky and combative and sweet and pliant, standing up to Phil when he needs to and giving way when he wants to and Phil has never felt so fulfilled.

Phil yanks Clint’s head back and wraps his fingers around Clint’s and they jerk Phil off together as he comes over Clint’s face. Clint’s marked by the white streaks of Phil’s come for only seconds before the water washes them away. He drags Clint up his body and is just about take his mouth in a punishing kiss when he remembers the bet and he bares his teeth and snarls, not able to fully keep the beast at bay.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Clint has to tug his own balls sharply downwards, cutting off the urgent need to come and then Phil’s snarls almost undoes Clint despite his best efforts. He feels himself go limp in Phil’s arms, unable to support himself as the desires war within him; his skin is on fire and his mind is floating and in that moment he needs Phil’s kiss more than anything else he’s ever needed. He almost breaks, his lips ghosting by Phil’s and he lets out a long low moan as he clings to Phil for dear life.

They stay that way for several long seconds, panting in each other’s arms. When Clint thinks he can finally stand on his own he finds his legs are still shaking and twines his arms around Phil’s neck. He nips Phil’s ear playfully and whispers hoarsely, “I’m gonna come so God damned much when I win.”


	5. Chapter Five

Barton has just slipped on his shirt— the white one with the faded purple target when he freezes.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are the chances your family didn’t hear all that.”

“Why? You’ve never cared about what anyone else has thought before.”

“Yeah, but this is your family. I don’t want things to be awkward, or for them to look at me like I’m a— ” Clint cuts himself off.

“A what? A submissive?” Phil knows Barton has some deep seated dynamic issues, but he had thought being around his family’s healthy relationships would help give Barton some perspective.

“No, it’s not that,” too late Clint realizes he should have agreed with Phil. He pushes past Coulson towards the bedroom door. He would rather face the judgment of Coulson’s family than have this conversation, “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

“What were you going to say?” Coulson asks, grabbing his arm and stopping him.

Clint can’t look at Coulson, “Can you just drop it. Please?” He asks, closing his eyes.

It’s the ‘please’ that almost gets to him; Barton only ever says ‘please’ in the throes of passion and even then if Phil doesn’t handle it with care it can send him into a shame filled drop. He’s never said it like this before, fully Up and sincere.

It’s a fragile thing between them, something that could fracture into a million shards and pierce them both.

It’s also what tells Phil that this is important, that it’s something they need to talk about. He weighs the balance of sparing Barton discomfort now against the chance that whatever this is will fester and says, “No. No, I don’t think I can.”

It’s a gamble, forcing the issue might make Barton clam up and storm off, spending the rest of the day or longer moody and distant.

Clint chews his lip. It’s stupid. He’s being stupid. It’s just a dumb word that doesn’t mean anything. He’s making a big deal out of nothing. And Coulson doesn’t think he’s a slut, or at least would never call him one to his face.

“Talk to me, Barton,” Coulson says it the same tone he has on half a dozen missions, no judgment or expectations, just a direct request for intel.

“Fine. Slut. I don’t want them to know I’m your slut,” Barton says with so much disgust that it’s like getting hit in the face and Phil jerks away without thinking.

Coulson drops Clint’s arm like it's on fire and of course he wouldn’t want to touch Clint now that it’s out in the open.

Phil realizes he’s made a mistake, Barton looks abandoned as he wraps his arms around himself and bunches his shoulders.

“Look. I know I’m a— I know what I am; but that doesn’t mean I want your family treating me like one.”

“Jesus, Clint. Come here, sweetheart,” Phil pulls a reluctant Barton into his arms and holds him close, Barton holds back for a fraction of a second before collapse into him like a dying star. Phil says, “First of all, there’s nothing wrong with enjoying sex. I enjoy it just as much as you do. You know that, right?”

“It’s different for doms.”

“And I’m not saying it isn’t, but it shouldn’t be. You have nothing to feel ashamed of and, I promise, my family won’t judge you.”

“Peter does.”

“Is that— What exactly did he say to you?” Fuck, and now Clint’s made Coulson angry. He’s just fucking up all over the place.

“It was nothing. I told you, I handled it.”

“I don’t think it was nothing. I was willing to let this go last night but it’s obviously still bothering you.”

“I’m hungry. Can we go get something to eat and talk about this later?”

Phil sighs. He doesn’t want to put this off but it's probably better that they not have this argument on empty stomachs, “Okay, but I’m not letting this go.”

~~~

There’s no one in the rec room and when they get upstairs the only ones they see are Shelly and Derek sitting on the couch and playing Mario Kart at full volume.

“No, no, no!” Shelly yells, “Fucking blue shell!”

“You’re going down, Sparky!”

“Bite me. I’m the comeback queen, baby.”

They jostle each other’s shoulders and then Derek shouts, “Yes! Say it!”

She says something inaudible.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Derek cups his ear.

Shelly rolls her eyes dramatically and then with a sour expression says, “You are better than me in every conceivable way. I bow down before your superior might, Derek; please, oh great one, teach me your ways.”

Clint feels like he’s entered the twilight zone.

Derek laughs and then looks up, “Oh, hey guys. Either of you want in?”

“I’m going to scrounge together some lunch for Clint. Where is everyone?” Coulson asks.

Until Coulson, Clint had thought Service Doms were something Hollywood made up for sub cinema but Clint’s slowly getting used to the way Coulson wants to take care of him.

Shelly says, “Dad’s keeping Mom company while she writes and everyone else went to a movie. Come on, help me kick Derek’s ass. Pleeeeease Cheeeeese?”

Phil rolls his eyes and starts to rummage through the fridge, “Lunch first; then I’ll beat you both.”

“What are you making?” Shelly asks.

“Grilled cheese sound okay, Clint?”

“Will you do that thing with the parmesan?”

Phil shuffles some things around and makes sure they have everything he needs, checking to see if he will have to make a trip to the store, “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Clint smiles at the endearment. He can’t get over how indulgent Coulson is around his family. Not that he’s not normally, some would say overly, free with his praise and affection; it’s just that normally he saves it for behind closed doors.

Which, really, Clint appreciates. He still hasn’t come out as a sub at work and isn’t sure he ever will. He would have thought that Coulson, as his dominant, would want everyone to know but he seems happy enough with everyone thinking he’s dating another dominant.

And it’s not like SHIELD gives a damn, Sitwell and Hill have been on-again-off-again for years and while there are betting pools in how long each phase will last, no one cares about the doms’ dynamics. Clint’s never even heard any jokes about ‘which one tops’, and he would have guess that it was because Maria Hill is terrifying, but if that were the case, he doesn’t think there would be any betting at all. Which would be a shame, because he’s making bank off the two of them.

“What thing?” Derek asks.

“Oh my God, it’s the best,” Clint says, “He grills the outside with cheese and it gets crispy and it’s just amazing.”

“Would you like one, Derek?”

“Sounds great. Thanks, Phil.”

“Me too, Philly.”

“Sure thing, Misch.”

As weird as it is having Phil cook for him, what’s even weirder is that he’s making something for Shelly and her sub instead of making Clint do it; and weirder than that is the fact that no one else finds it strange.

“Clint, will you check with Mom and Dad and see if they want in on this?”

“Sure.”

Clint knocks on the door to Mrs. Coulson’s study and waits to hear her say, “Come in,” before opening the door.

“Oh!” He exclaims softly, feeling a bolt of envy, “I didn’t know you were,” he gestures to where Mr. Coulson is kneeling on a luxuriant cushion, his head is on Mrs. Coulson’s lap, and she takes a break from typing to run her fingers through his hair.

That’s not something Clint thought he would ever want but now he can picture himself next to Phil as he works and Clint _wants_.

“You’re fine, dear,” Mrs. Coulson says, “Did you need something?”

Clint clears throat, “Um, Phil’s making grilled cheese and wanted to know if you wanted some.”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Coulson says, stretching as he lifts his head from Mrs. Coulson’s lap, “You should eat something, too, love.”

She looks as if she’s debating it, but at a sharp poke from her submissive she huffs and then smiles down at him fondly, “Yes, Sir. Clint, be a dear and tell Phil we’ll be there in a couple minutes. You can leave the door open.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Julie,” she says looking at Clint, her tone is gentle but firm.

“Sorry. Julie,” normally he doesn’t give a flying fuck about protocol but he keeps slipping into it with Phil’s parents. Maybe it’s something in the air.

As he leaves the room he sees Mrs. Coulson pick up Mr. Coulson’s hand and kiss his palm and he feels something ache inside at how much they obviously love each other.

He shakes it off and yells over to Phil, “Two more, boss man.”

“Hey, Clint, come dominate Derek for me, I have to pee. Again,” Shelly says, levering herself up off the couch with Derek’s help.

He’s taken aback for a second and then realizes she means the game.

Clint laughs, “I’ll see what I can do.”

~~~

A couple hours later, full of cheese and bread, Clint’s laying upside down on the couch, legs thrown over the back and head over the edge of the seat in order to give Coulson, Shelly, and Derek a fighting chance.

“Hah!” Coulson shouts as he bumps Clint off the track and takes the lead.

Coulson’s on the floor next to Clint, sitting cross legged on one of the fluffy kneeling cushions and Clint looks up to catch his eye. Clint winks as he lands back on the road well ahead of everyone else and effortlessly crosses the finish line first.

Barton laughs and he’s so full of joy that Phil can’t resist leaning over to for an upside down kiss.

Clint feels his toes curl and he slides off the couch and into Phil’s arms with a soft hum of pleasure.

Suddenly Barton breaks the kiss, “Hey! I win!”

“You did, but I’m still not sure how you managed to land back on the track from where you were.”

“No, I mean, I win,” he says, staring at Phil intensely.

“I think we’re missing something,” Shelly says.

Suddenly Phil remembers their earlier wager, he feels a smile curve his lips, “I suppose you did. You can remind we when we get home to collect your winnings. In the meantime, there’s no reason for me not to do this,” and he pulls Clint into an even deeper kiss, Clint cradled in his lap as he devours Clint’s mouth and he tightens his hold as Clint moans.

Before Clint can embarrass himself any further, there’s a loud commotion as the front door swings open to admit the returning band of Coulsons.

“I’m just saying it’s completely unrealistic, he’s just too good at everything. Shells, back me up here,” Erica says.

“Back you up in what?”

“Ethan Hunt is a ridiculous character. I mean hot? Sure, who wouldn’t want him to put them on their knees, but that’s just not how real spies work, right?”

“I’m in Counter-Terrorism, Er; I’m basically a glorified accountant who lives in front of a computer.”

“Why do you need a gun if you have a desk job, Aunt Shelly?”

“Um.”

Erica saves her from having to answer, “What I want to know is if you know anyone who actually does the spy shit you see in the movies. I mean, none of that is real, right?”

“I don’t know, I think most of what Ethan Hunt does is because it’s something Tom Cruise wants to do,” Laura says, “Ergo…”

Kate laughs, “I’m pretty sure not even Tom Cruise wants to jump into an exploding building. That’s insane, even for him.”

Phil raises an eyebrow at Barton and Barton shrugs sheepishly. It’s not unlike similar arguments they’ve had about Barton’s own behavior.

“What?” Shelly asks, catching the look.

“Oh, nothing,” Coulson says looking at Clint with narrowed eyes, “I was just telling Barton that even international super spies shouldn’t be jumping into exploding buildings.”

So, yeah, Coulson might still be a little peeved about Kiev, “I still say a good spy will do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

“Okay, well, what about the motorcycle scene?” Noah asks.

“Look, sometimes you’ve got to race across a Turkish rooftop and it’s not like you can take a car up there. If nothing else the terra cotta won’t hold the weight,” Clint knows for a fact that the roofs also won’t hold up to a motorcycle, but he hadn’t ended up with cracked ribs like the Kiev job, so he’s pretty sure he’s been forgiven for that one.

“You’re thinking about that Bond flick, this was the one with the running of the bulls,” Laura says.

Clint says, “Oh, yeah, that’s completely unrealistic; the only way you end up on that street when the bulls are running is on purpose.”

The entire Coulson family devolves into an argument of everyone taking sides what’s real and what’s fiction, and if Clint and Coulson use it to rehash their greatest hits, at least the audience keeps them from getting too heated.

~~~

“Coulson’s a spy,” Clint says, smirking as he blows’ Coulson’s cover.

Kate laughs, ”Yeah, right.”

Shelly looks thoughtful, “I could see it.”

“How the hell do you figure that?” Peter demands.

“Well, Phillip?” Mrs. Coulson prods.

Their earlier discussion had lead Shelly to recommend they play ‘Tinker, Tailor’, a social deduction game about a molehunt.

Mrs. Coulson is the Silencer, or moderator, this round, which makes Shelly and Coulson Clint’s main competition. The four of them have been jockeying for first since the start of the game.

The table had gone silent when Clint flipped over his two of hearts, revealing himself as a Tinker, one of the civilians, in order to blow the cover of a Spy; it’s only the second round, but Clint knows Coulson is a Spy and if Clint gives him anymore time he’ll figure out the Tailor (or mole), which is no good for Clint.

Unfortunately, Clint’s only fifty/fifty on the mole being Shelly or Allison, but he can’t risk going after the mole himself, even though it would mean a better score for Clint. If he’s wrong Coulson will definitely beat him and he can’t have that. Besides, Coulson’s been eyeing him and Chris which puts good odds on Coulson shooting Chris now that he knows Clint is a civilian, which will push Clint in the lead.

Phil sighs and turns over his card, revealing the king of spades, then smirks at Barton, “Well then, I guess I have to shoot Shelly, since she’s the Tailor,” he shooting a finger gun at his sister.

“You sneaky bastard!” Clint says with a laugh; before Shelly even has a chance to flip over her card, he knows that Coulson’s right. He had done an excellent job of hiding his interest in Shelly, likely for this exact eventuality.

“Damn it!” Shelly reveals the ace of diamonds showing that, yes, she was the Tailor, “You were guessing.”

“Actually, I had it down to you or Barton. Barton just made it easy for me.”

Clint says, “Ugh. I should have blown Shelly’s cover.”

“So who was the other Spy?” Noah asks, “Chris?”

“Allison,” Phil, Shelly, and Barton all day at the same time.

Everyone else laughs and then looks shocked to varying degrees when Allison turns over the ace of spades, grumbling, “Was I that obvious?”

“Not at all, sweetheart,” Phil says, “You were just about to blow your cover but Barton beat you to the punch. Thanks for that by the way, sweetheart. I really thought you were the mole.”

“I would never be a double agent!” Barton says with mock outrage, “How dare you, sir!”

Phil holds his hands up placatingly, “I apologize. Can I buy your forgiveness with an ice cream sandwich?”

“Him? What about me?” Shelly says.

“You actually were the mole,” Phil says, “but sure. Consolation ice cream sandwiches for everyone.”

~~~

Much later, Clint looks around the beautiful church and instead of feeling uncomfortable he finds himself taken in by the pageantry.

Dinner was amazing, and sitting next to his dom with a sated belly, surrounded by Phil’s family, Clint thinks he might finally understand the spirit of Christmas.

He can’t imagine a more perfect ending to a perfect day, but then that night Phil ties him to the bed and kisses him head to toe, taking his time until Clint is shaking and begging and just when he thinks he can’t take anymore they’re coming together.

Once Phil has checked in with Clint and cleaned them up they fall asleep in each other’s arms.


	6. Chapter Six

Christmas morning is a late affair in the Coulson household, most of the family sleeping in, which means Phil gets some prime cuddling time with Barton before they head upstairs to the smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls with Dad’s famous orange glaze. Dad always gets up early to start the turkey, and gets in a couple of trays of cinnamon rolls before it’s the bird’s turn.

Everyone stays in their pajamas until noon, long after all the gifts are opened and the wrapping paper cleared. Allison, as predicted, is enamored with her bow and even more excited when Barton mentions he brought his own bow and offers to go out and shoot targets with her once he has a chance to put on pants.

Technically Barton would have been fine with doing it in their pj’s, it was Laura and Phil who insisted they get properly dressed before heading out in the freezing snow.

“Phil, can I see you for a moment in the study?”

“Sure, Mom.”

His mother pours him a glass of the Macallan 50 a billionaire had given her after a successful case and Phil feels his heart race. That bottle was worth more than a year’s tuition at his alma mater, and she only brings it out under truly exceptional circumstances.

“Mom?” He asks, his breath catching, “What is this? Oh, God, are you dying? Is Dad dying? What’s going on.”

“Calm down, Phillip. Take a breath. No one is dying. It’s nothing bad. Everything’s going to be fine,” her lips are curled in an expression he recognizes from the mirror, it’s his ‘you can trust me, I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you’ face, the sincere one when he has everything under control and he feels himself settle.

He takes a small sip, letting the whiskey coat his tongue, holding it for a moment so that he can savor it as it deserves.

“So,” he asks, “What’s the occasion.”

“I’m giving you this,” she says, adding over a ring box.

He sets aside the scotch and opens the box. He raises an eyebrow; there’s a matte black metal buckle for an old fashioned collar resting on the blue velvet.

“That was your great grandmother Gertrude’s. It’s been handed down our line for over two hundred years. Only three Coulsons have worn it, and I want you to have it.”

“Mom,” Phil breathes out. He picks up the buckle, it’s light, tin aged to the point of being black, and on the back, the engraving has been kept silver, bright against the patina.

AS YOU ARE MINE  
LET ME BE YOURS  
WHITHER THOU GOEST  
I WILL GO  
PARI PASSU

Phil works out the Latin, “‘Equal pace’?”

Mom smiles, “‘With an equal step’, or more colloquially, ‘equal in all respects’.”

“Why isn’t it Dad’s?

“I love your father more than life itself and when we got together we were mad for each other but we didn’t have what you and Clint have, and I think that someday you may even have more than we have now.”

“Mom,” Phil says, blinking away tears, “but we haven’t even said, ‘I love you’ yet.”

“Of course you have.”

“What?”

“It’s there every time you look at each other, in every touch. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

Phil looks down at the engraving and runs his fingers lightly over the words.

“It’s perfect.”

~~~

Clint’s never had more fun when he was also freezing his balls off.

It turns out Flight Risk was literally the prototype for Allison’s bow, which makes him the best person on the planet to show her how to make the most of it. It also makes him wonder how much influence Coulson has on what makes it out from R & D and into the world.

Allison is a gifted archer, nearly matching him shot for shot, and they start to show off for each other; there are a handful of targets set up out by the woodshed and they start a game of HORSE. Clint feels a little bad for beating her with a shot that involves a backflip but he isn’t about to lose to a kid barely into her teens.

Clint ends up giving her a couple of his trick arrows after getting a solemn pinky promise that she won’t tell her parents where she got them.

They’re drinking hot cocoa under a blanket together on the back porch, finally cold enough to call a break, when Allison asks, “Is that what it's like to go Down?”

“For me, it’s almost more like going Up, instead of things going fuzzy, they get sharp, clear-like. All my senses are working together and it just…”

“Clicks.”

“Yeah.”

“As for going Down, I think it’s different for everyone? I think you’ll be fine if you just talk it out with your sub. Go slow to start. Be respectful. Not a lot of doms are, it’s one of the greatest gifts they can give you.”

Allison laughs, “I’m not a dom, I’m a sub.”

“You— what?!”

“You really couldn’t tell?” She asks.

“I guess I just wasn’t looking for it. You’re so good at standing up for yourself, even with your parents.”

“Well, yeah. You give your folks an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

Clint smiles, “I think that’s true for just about everyone,” Clint realizes something and asks, “But wait, you mean you’ve never gone Down?”

“Not like ‘Down’ Down. A little with Mother, and sometimes at school, but that’s not like going Down for real, like,” Allison whispers the last word, “Sex.”

“Well. It’s probably good that you haven’t. You're still young yet. And if I can give you a little advice?”

Allison nods, wide eyed.

“Don’t rush into anything, but don’t wait just because you want to find the perfect dom. Your first time doesn’t have to be special, but it’s really nice if it is,” Clint blushes, remembering his first time with Monica, “And if it isn’t, there’s always the next time. Hell, I know some subs that don’t scene at all and are perfectly happy with their lives.”

“Really?”

“Really. Just because you’re a sub doesn’t mean you have to have a dom in your life.”

Allison chews on her lip, taking it all in.

“The main thing is if it doesn’t feel right, then it’s not right; and don’t go into a scene of you're not willing to use your safeword. It doesn’t ruin the scene, you know what ruins a scene?” Allison shakes her head, “You doing something that feels wrong.”

“What if...what if I think I like a little wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. Take the time to learn the difference between the fun kind of wrong and the kind of wrong that makes you feel bad.”

She worries her fingers at a hole in the hand knitted throw that’s over their laps.

“Do they teach you RACK in sex Ed?”

“SSC.”

Clint shrugs, “I’m a RACK sub myself, but both are good. Safe, Sane, and Consensual will get you where you need to go but some of us fit the Risk Aware Consensual Kink mold better and that’s okay.”

“Have you ever done the bad kind of wrong?” She asks quietly.

Clint’s silent for a bit, lost a little in his memories, both good and bad and then nods. He leans into her and his voice is soft and a little sad when he says, “Take my word for it, when it’s the bad kind of wrong, you’ll know. Don’t ever feel like you owe anything to anyone who makes you feel that way. And if and when you find a partner that suits you, hold on with both hands and don’t let go. Not for the world.”

“Like you and Uncle Phil?”

Clint squeezes her shoulder and takes a drink of his cocoa before replying, “Yeah, Allison. Like me and Phil.”

They go back to shooting and then Coulson is calling them in for Christmas dinner, and even though they’re having an early meal Clint’s surprised at how much time has passed.

He gathers up their bow cases and then lifts Allison in one hand and she shrieks loud enough to bring everyone to the big picture window that looks over the deck attached to the kitchen. He climbs the stairs with her under one arm and when he gets to the top asks, “Has anyone seen Allison, I can’t seem to find her anywhere.”

Coulson’s closest to the door and says, “I believe she’s under your arm, dear.”

“Is she?” Clint swings her and and lifts her until she’s higher than his shoulder. He looks under his arm and then back at Coulson saying, “I don’t see her.”

“Uncle Clint!” She shouts in delight as he swings her around some more, pretending to look for her.

Coulson warm look of fondness, so like the one his mom gives his dad hits Clint like a bolt of lightening and he has to look away, so he looks up into Allison’s eyes, “Found her!” He sets her down gently and she gives him a laughter filled hug before taking her bow case, “Isn’t it always the last place you look.”

“That’s why you keep looking until you find it,” Phil takes his hand and pulls him in for a sweet kiss.

~~~

Dinner is amazing, but they’re only about halfway through when Coulson gets a call; he checks the screen then excuses himself from the table, “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he shrugs, “Work.”

Clint watches him with concern as Kate says, “What kind of company has an HR emergency on Christmas.”

“We should probably count our blessings that Triskelion let him take any time off at all. I don’t think any of you realize how important his job is,” Clint says.

Coulson comes back over, “I’m sorry, everyone, we have to go,” he looks at Clint, “It’s the Quinn Worldwide takeover. Things are moving fast. They’re going to have a jet ready for us within the hour.”

Finally! They’ve been trying to get a break on the Framework op for months. For an international business mogul, Ian Quinn sure knows how to disappear.

“Aw, does Uncle Clint really have to go too?”

“It’s for the best, kiddo, besides it means I get to ride in a company jet. Those things are faaaaaaancy.”

“Barton, you start loading the car with what you can, I’ll start packing.”

Kate follows Clint as he heads to the car and blocks the his path on the way back, “Why are you doing this?”

“Uh, the plane leaves in an hour?”

“No, I mean following a loser like Phil. Stay, we’re so much more fun than a boring business trip. Besides, you’re so far out of his league you’re in a different sport.”

“Kate?” Clint pushes her to the side, much calmer than he actually feels; as he heads back inside for the rest of their luggage tells her, “You’ve got that completely backwards.”

Everyone crowds around them exchanging hugs and regrets that their stay has been cut short. Clint holds it together until Mr. Coulson tells him, “You will always have a place in my home, Clint Barton; if you ever need anything, just let us know.”

“I— Thank you, Robert,” Clint says, giving Coulson’s dad a hug, doing what he can to soak up as much of the Coulson Christmas spirit as he can.

As they’re driving away, Barton says, “I've never spent New Year’s in Italy. We’re should we go once we’ve got the intel?”

“How about Rome?”

“Sounds perfect.”

Unfortunately, they don’t get to spend New Years together at all.

It fact, it’s a long, long time before they see each other again and, when they do, nothing’s the same.

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry if this is repetitive.) Now that this series is complete I’m adding in my fan space information if you want to follow me anywhere.
> 
> Since I’m not sure which fic in the series is drawing everyone in from, I’m going to c/p my info here.
> 
> It turns out I am terrible at tumblr; it used to be my main fandom space but then my brain broke and I can’t keep up with it anymore. I would still love it if you followed me, I will follow back, I always love making new fandom friends.
> 
> I’ve set up accounts at the links below, I am going to try to keep all three updated.
> 
> Twitter: @ParaprosdokiaCC  
> Ko-fi: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Patreon: https://ko-fi.com/paraprosdokia  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia (am I doing this right?)


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